


euterpe

by gryffindormischief



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Inspired by Music, follower celebration fics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-11-07 17:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 25,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20820815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffindormischief/pseuds/gryffindormischief
Summary: A collection of celebratory fics all inspired by song selections by my followers :)I hope these are enjoyable and fun!  They’re all completed but I’ll post 1 at a time each day for October!Chapter titles will be the song and the ship





	1. Hurts 2B Human - HG

Ginny blinks awake at the sound of her alarm, entirely too early and too shrill for mid-winter. Her eyes are scratchy and dry, brain feeling clumsy with her fitful night’s sleep.

Before her body rebels and drifts back off to sleep, Ginny rolls from beneath the covers, chilling the rest of her body to matchy her rosy, chapped nose. 

“Bloody hell, guess this is their final revenge,” Ginny mutters, along with some choice words for whoever built the drafty tower dorms. Though they hardly bear the burden for Ginny’s foul mood this appropriately grey morning.

Hermione shifts fitfully in her sleep and Ginny quickly gathers her clothes and shoes to dress in the bathroom, hoping to avoid waking her friend. It had been a late night for them both, mostly staring into space while pretending to revise or play some odd Muggle card game Ginny is apparently incapable of comprehending.

The one Harry taught her where you get to slap each other is oceans more enjoyable.

Thoughts of his playful teasing over winter hols does manage to bring a smile to her lips, however imperceptible to the naked eye it may be. It had been quite a lovely holiday, all things considered.

Just before she and Hermione left for King’s Cross after the new year, Mum had knocked softly on the door to Ginny’s bedroom, bearing freshly laundered robes and a grim expression. “Free of wrinkles,” she’d said, quiet, “You’ll look quite respectable.”

Then, they’d finished packing Ginny’s trunk in silence, laying the inky black robes on top with paper wrapped around the crisp folds for good measure. Unbidden, her eyes had filled with tears that spilled over when Molly tugged her to her chest. “I am proud of you, my beautiful, brave girl.”

Now, as the floo powder clumps with the dampness of her palm and McGonagall waits like a sentinel over her shoulder, Ginny wishes she was less brave.

McGonagall sniffs once, prim. “Well off you get,” one hand finds Ginny’s shoulder in a firm squeeze, “I expect you back for dinner. This isn’t a holiday.”

Blowing out a breath, Ginny takes the instruction for what it is. Not only an instruction, but also a reminder - this is temporary and it _ will _end. Just like everything else, just like everything almost did.

And that thought is what jars her into action, what jarred her into action the day Hogwarts was invaded and Sirius died, the day the world almost ended for all of them and for too many it actually did. Never again.

Not if Ginevra Molly Weasley had anything to say about it.

Her resolve last through the whirlwind of the Floo Network, lasts as her carefully shined shoes _ click-clack _ on the polished marble of the Ministry Atrium.

Despite all the ceremonies, all the times she’d visited Harry since the war, it’s still a shock to see the bare center where the fountain used to be. Most feel the same, like leaving the chasm is accepting it as a permanent wound on the wizarding world, but however universally something is felt, the wheels of bureaucracy grind slowly. Particularly when funding is at issue.

When she reaches the visitor’s checkpoint, the attendant gestures for her wand and it feels like removing a limb, feels like she’s being set up for - _ something _ \- but she complies and accepts it back along with a badge that reads _ Visitor - Wizengamot _.

Beneath, there’s her name and a small, clinical photo she’d submitted months before, as an increased security measure at Harry’s suggestion. He’d worked closely with Kingsley over the last half a year, pointing out some flaws that were easily exploited should one wish to enter the Ministry of Magic undetected.

Sensical as the suggestions were, and still are, Ginny can’t help like the badge acts like a large glowing sign above her head, shouting _ war hero, war victim, damaged _. 

A blinking light letting everyone know those circles under her eyes, the slight drag in her step, is from sleepless nights filled with sweat-drenched nightmares she wishes every day weren’t so steeped in reality.

A firm hand grips her arm and Ginny’s body freezes. “Gin?”

_ Harry _.

She twists and he’s frowning down at her, that little wrinkle between his brows. “I didn’t know you were coming today - I planned to come get you when - ”

Ginny squares her shoulders. “I can find my way just fine.”

His frown deepens, less concern and more that mostly infuriating and partially adorable pout he makes when he’s unhappy. Then, he’s carting her off God knows where and shoving her in a dank broom closet.

After a moment, golden light from the tip of his wand fills the air and Ginny gets to unleash the full brunt of _ her _scowl, “You know I’m really not in the mood for a quick snog, Harry.”

He rolls his eyes and crosses his arms. Oh, somebody’s using their ‘intimidate the suspect’ training on his girlfriend. “Yeah, I’m not either. Talk.”

“I don’t talk to strange men I meet when they drag me off into a broom cupboard at the Ministry.”

“You’re avoiding things.”

“Because you’re _ so _open with your feelings.”

“Fine, how’s this? You’re pissed and terrified and can’t decide if you want to burn the world down or hide away forever. It feels like the weight of everyone we lost, everyone who’s suffered, is on your shoulders and you want to ask why these arseholes get a day in court when they didn’t even spare their victims basic human decency.”

He holds her gaze and she lets her hands drift up to his forearms, gripping tightly. “I have to relive it all - I already do in my sleep.”

“But now it’s with an audience,” Harry finishes.

“Thanks for the words of comfort,” Ginny says with a watery laugh.

And then, her cheek is pressed to his chest, that spicy cinnamon fills her lungs as her tear swollen eyes drift closed and his heard beats steadily beneath her ear.

Some unknowable time later, one of Harry’s hands drifts from her back and she hears a small _ click _. “They’ll be calling for you soon.”

Ginny blows out a steadying breath. “Yeah.”

He smiles at her in the soft glow of his wand light. “I’ll take you for ice cream after?”

Rising up on tip-toe, Ginny presses a soft kiss to the corner of his lips. “After.”


	2. Accidentally In Love - RH

The eighth time in less than an hour that Madame Pince sweeps by, eyeing the three of them suspiciously, Hermione harrumphs. “You’d think we were conspiring to burn Hogwarts to the ground the way she keeps looking at us.”

Harry ruffles his hair and scratches out a few messy lines on his parchment. “To be fair, we usually are conspiring about something.”

He looks to Ron, likely expecting some sort of cheeky addition to his statement, but the young Weasley, preoccupied as he is, hasn’t kept up with most of the conversation, or his studies. 

Regardless, the pages keep turning beneath his freckled fingers and his eyes dart toward Hermione whenever he’s certain she won’t notice. He’s looking a bit peaky as of late. 

By this point, Hermione’s already resumed her furious scribbles, and Harry’s got a far off look in his eyes - likely imagining some new harrowing task to be thrown his way by the Triwizard Committee. Ron, meanwhile, seems intent on chewing through his quill in a rather beaver-like fashion. He’s just about snapped it in two when he blows out a long breath and blurts, “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course - no need to be embarrassed by asking for help,” Hermione says, glancing up at Ron, “Not like you and Harry have ever been shy.”

Harry rolls his eyes and droops against the table, palm cupped in his cheek as Ron visibly steels himself and stumbles out, “Willyougototheyuleballwithme?”

And somehow, by some mystical feat of codebreaking that would leave Bill impressed, Hermione manages to grasp the content of Ron’s question. She narrows her dark eyes, pushing back her wild curls with an absent flick of her wrist. “ _ Why _ ?”

Ron’s flush rises up his neck and to the tips of his ears now, blue eyes glassy and wide. “Well, you’re a girl and were...friends.”

An answering blush colors Hermione’s cheeks and Harry has managed to refocus on the odd tableau playing out in the darkest,dankest corner of the Hogwarts Library - a condition Hermione regularly bemoans. Harry’s learned to ignore the slight smell of mold but he can’t fight the grimace that twists his lips as Ron and Hermione studiously avoid eye contact and murmur nearly unintelligibly. 

Ron’s murmurs mainly include lots of ‘no need to feel pressured’ and ‘perhaps this was a mistake’ and something about the possibility he ingested some spoilt food by accident considering the state of his stomach at the moment. 

Until finally, Hermione settles on a firm, authoritative, and slightly too loud, “Yes.”

Madame Pince looks murderous but Ron practically glows with excitement, preening like Malfoy’s peacocks - not that anyone who said as much to Ron would live to see another sunrise.

Eventually he does muster up a response, self deprecating though it is. “Sorry you’re going to have to spend an entire night looking at me in those horrid robes - “ he pales and stammers, “Not that you’re looking at me - “

With a rather dramatic groan, Harry shoves his chair away from the table and scoops his books, parchments, and other revision supply tools messily into his bag and leaves the table. Watching best mates stumbling into date is too much to ask of a person. 

A few moments of quiet pass, save the steady click of Madame Pince’s sensible heels and the swish of her robes. Neither Ron nor Hermione so much as turns a page in the interim, each staring blindly at the tabletop until Hermione glances up with a soft smile. “I’m sure you’ll look quite nice in your dress robes.”

Ron’s grin spreads wide across his freckled cheeks as his gaze finally finds the empty chair shoved out into the aisle. “Where’s Harry?”


	3. Wonderland - JL

It’s the hair she sees first and leaves her questioning her sanity a bit. Because certainly there are infinite numbers of blokes in the United Kingdom with black hair. Black hair that’s perpetually flicked up into wild peaks. Perpetually flicked peaks that are generally the result of excessive ruffling. Exactly like the man she’s mentally termed ‘fit buffet line cutter’ _ just _did. 

And really, there’s no way more than one person has that much of an addiction to their own hair - Lily had spent about a quarter of their relationship smacking his hand away and trying to keep him from yanking out those glorious locks with a nervous tick.

Now - well he’s nearly ten years older and those locks are just as tempting. Honestly, half the time she felt like she was being a bit of a hypocrite because she’d often had to mentally chide herself for her addiction to running her fingers through the curls, tugging them when the mood hit. On occasion, she’d found herself sniffing the well-cared for waves. It is a bit difficult, to be honest, to resist even though firmly rooted social mores assure her that any sort of touching would be _ wildly _inappropriate. 

So instead, she settles comfortably back into one of their favorite forms of interaction - playful antagonism. “Pardon me, sir. You may be starved for food, but I would hope that didn’t cause you to lose all sense of propriety. Euphemia would be devastated.”

When he turns, James’ eyes are narrowed in confusion and his lips are already parted with what’s sure to be a cheeky rejoinder, but as soon as he sees her - his jaw goes slack. “I - Lily.”

A smile quirks her mouth and she barely breathes out a soft and embarrassingly shaky _ James _ before he’s wrapped her in his arms. He’s still got that scent - a glorious mix of clean soap and woody cologne - if the shaky breath was embarrassing the tremble in her knees is _ mortifying _.

James seems to mask whatever discomfort he may be feeling well, pulling her into a firm embrace as his lips gently brush her hairline. “This is a fantastic surprise.”

A throat clears behind them - nobody likes a delay in the buffet line - and Lily takes a step back. “Shall we?”

James blinks a few times, perhaps clearing away the cobwebs of memory, and then he lifts two fresh plates and passes one to Lily. “If you’re here alone - ”

“I’d love to catch up over dinner,” Lily answers before he can finish. This could be her third embarrassment of the day, but the way his face lights at the idea she’s transported back to the ease of simply being _ friends _ with James. And that’s what they were, even before everything. Really, they should have been after. But things never go as they should, which is what Petunia had sneered when Lily brought James home as her _ boyfriend _for the first time. It was late in their A levels, thoughts of university dominated most of life, and objectively it wasn’t the best timing. 

Falling in love with James hadn’t been the plan but once it happened she couldn’t very well back out. But as their last year came to a close and he was getting scouted and she was applying for med school, it felt more and more like they had an expiration date.

When she climbs out of the rabbit hole of their past, James is dangling a spoonful of baked mac and cheese with a small grin. “Still a sucker for this?”

Lily’s eyes flit from the proffered spoon and the widening smile on his face, his sparking hazel eyes, and she finds herself answering softly, “Yes, it would appear I am.”


	4. Don't Want to Miss a Thing - HG

Sometimes, Ginny wonders if their shared - and sadly trauma induced - paranoia is the thing that drew them together. It’s usually in one of the increasingly infrequent paranoia flare ups, which have decreased with time. 

The lucky thing is generally their _ issues _ aren’t triggered at the same moment and over the years they’ve gotten good at talking each other down.

So when Ginny wakes up for one of her increasingly frequent evening visits to the loo and finds Harry staring at her, head propped on his hand like he’s lounging on the beach, it seems like an intervention might be in order.

“You’re being creepy.”

He grins, lifting his free hand so he can filter his fingers through her hair. “No. I’m being adorable.”

Ginny grasps his wrist and presses a kiss to his palm. “Over the course of our friendship - ”

“Hope you don’t have babies with all your friends,” Harry interrupts with a low chuckle.

“_ \- friendship _ I have learned those two features aren’t mutually exclusive.”

After watching her for another minute - because apparently that’s his new thing - Harry leans in close and does that _ thing _ . That ‘our lips almost touch but don’t quite _ touch _ and the sexual tension builds up until we think we might die’ thing.

His eyes sparkle in the dim lighting. “Perhaps you just need a reminder of how very _ beyond _friendship we are.”

Ginny takes advantage of the momentary opening his gloating provides and kisses him, short and heated. “I will take you up on that offer, sir.”

Grin widening, Harry moves to slant over her when she slips from under the covers and into the loo, calling back through the door, “_ After _ I relieve the suffering induced by your unborn progeny.”

And as the remainder of the nine months pass, Ginny’s certain Harry’s occasional late-night admiration sessions continue - she catches him enough times after particularly difficult assignments or late nights at the office stack up. 

But really, post birth, James Sirius is living up to his namesakes’ legacies with about as much mischief and mayhem as possible when the individual in question doesn’t yet have the ability to flip on and off their belly, so she assumes when sleep’s available they’re both doing it.

Until Ginny wakes with her right arm numb from being pinned beneath her and finds two thirds of the Potter family looming overhead. Miraculously, the smaller Potter is asleep while the larger seems torn regarding where his attention is best focused.

Right now, he’s running a light finger over the wispy black hairs that curl over James’ little head, lips gentle as he hugs the little bundle closer.

“Still a little creepy,” Ginny whispers, laying her palm on Harry’s thigh.

“We’re adorable.”

“I s’pose, yes.”

“Glad to see motherhood has made you more reasonable.”

Her lips lift in a soft smile. “Or sleep deprivation has made me less discerning.”

“What a party pooper you are.”

“Regular old stick in the mud, I am.”

Harry grins. “Go to sleep, mud sticker.”


	5. Catch My Breath - HG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> early post today! happy weekend :)

He looks at her like she hung the moon, she stares right back like he’s the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. It would be nice, easier if they were one of those couples so loved up that everyone around them wanted to gag. But that’s not how they are at all - her brothers are around in some number more often than not. And this assignment has been going on for the better part of a week, so it’s a fairly good sampling. 

No, instead of awkwardly public displays and overly romantic overtures, it seems their happiness together is more something that overflows, spilling onto everyone around them.

Her instructions were, in general terms, to find the ‘fissures’ in their relationship. That anyone together more than not for nearly ten years without any other partners must be on the verge of some sort of negative, and hopefully public, event.

They squabble like any couple, she’s seen it. Who likes which brand of cereal best, whether it’s his or her turn to pay for the movie tickets - it seems like a bit of a fairytale to be honest. 

Surely, there are worse arguments, but she draws the line at following them into their home. Mostly because it’s a toss up which would resort to deadly force first. And as curious as she is, she’d really rather not find out first hand. Though money’s on Ginny Potter (formerly Weasley). There are stories told with hollow eyes about bat bogeys the size of earth globes. 

Though anybody who’s met Benny Thomas wouldn’t blame someone for resorting to mild to medium violent measures.

Now, they’re sitting huddled together in a dark booth at the back of this dingy muggle pub that they seem to favor. Likely due to a sadly misinformed idea that nobody from the wizarding world can find them here. 

In their defense, it would seem this was the first time anyone’s managed to track them here. Nobody said she’s not good at her job. Not even Rita, who seems to reward proficiency with increasingly questionable assignments. As rewards systems go it’s not particularly effective since this level of snooping into someone’s personal life just for some gossip - it doesn’t do goof things for the digestive tract.

And now, well now she’s close enough to hear all about their plans for the week, for the coming months, for… telling their family about the baby.

Oh, and there it is. There’s the scoop Rita wants, and the scoop that she does  _ not  _ want to give.

Because spending a week sort of with Harry and Ginny Potter made her feel almost as if she knows them, that they’re friends in an odd sort of way.

Which is a bit creepy sounding, yes, but it does mean her Hufflepuff protective streak has been activated and it’s pretty much impossible to betray their trust. The trust they have not really bestowed, but again, Hufflepuff. She’s not big on betrayals in any degree.

They look too happy to hurt, to out to the entire wizarding population. So she knows what’s coming. Unemployment, or perhaps slightly better, a sizeable demotion.

Rita is nothing if not vindictive so the demotion might actually be worse. 

Hopefully karma is real.

If she ends up with half of what they’ve got, it’d be a pretty good consolation prize.


	6. Kiss Me - RH

It feels silly, to be concerned with trivial matters after everything. But Hermione’s of a strong mind and she can manage thoughts about pending trials for Death Eaters  _ and  _ whether her boyfriend plans on kissing her in the next decade.

Honestly, they waited seven years, and even then it took a full scale battle and her own damn the torpedoes moment for the kiss to happen.

In the days after, there were excuses enough - valid ones - funerals, mourning, rebuilding, retrieving her parents, and any number of others. 

But when your boyfriend invites you to go see a film, learns Muggle money well enough to purchase the tickets himself, and studies an underground map for half a day to make sure he’s chosen the best route, it’s fair to have certain expectations. So far, they’ve watched a film, gotten dinner after to discuss, and now, he’s walked her home.

And over the course of the entire lovely evening, Ron hasn’t once done so much as look as if he  _ wants _ to hold her hand. Let alone kiss her.

Which is a problem, because Hermione really wants to kiss Ron. Normally, she’d chat with Ginny about this sort of thing, but she’s lost even the minimal level of plausible deniability with regard to the object of her affections. And close as they are it still feels a bit odd to ask Ron’s sister for advice getting him to kiss her.

It’s all beside the point now. They’re sitting on the little porch swing on her parents front porch, and Ron’s got his hands folded in his lap like a nervous schoolboy. Not that Ron was ever this well-behaved in his schoolboy days. 

“Hermio-”

“Ron - “

He flushes and waves one hand. “You go first.”

He’s dense, to be sure, and faint heart never won fair lady. Or in this case, fair gentleman. So it’s time to stop mincing words and demand a glorious snog from her boyfriend because he’s  _ definitely  _ her boyfriend.

“This was lovely, it’s all wonderful. But if you don’t stop being such a gentleman and just kiss me in the next two minutes I may lose my mind.”

A slow grin spreads across Ron’s lips as he leans in close and murmurs, “Can’t endanger that beautiful mind, eh?”


	7. I Wish You Would - RH

Two weeks in, she buys spearmint toothpaste, gum, and mouthwash. Just because she likes the flavor.

Four weeks and the coat he left in her closet smells like mothballs instead of firewood.

Almost three months and she forgets the way it feels to be held in his arms. Three months to the day and she’s forgotten why they’re apart in the first place. 

Work fills her days, bleeds into nights more and more. The emptiness reminds her why they’re apart and delivers a stomach plummeting realization that he wasn’t wrong.

She’d always been a Type-A, borderline workaholic (though most might leave off the borderline) but since she got her promotion in January and was awarded her first solo project - 

Ron was right and she pushed him away, hung up the phone and stormed around her flat and yelling into the abyss for three quarters of an hour.

Despite her hopes, said realization does not make bringing things to rights any easier. Her finger hovers over the ‘Call’ button, blue light glowing in her lonely bedroom, and she nearly does it. But pride rears its ugly head and she tosses her phone on the nightstand and drifts off into a fitful sleep.

Though nothing’s changed, not really, the idea of calling him is a constant niggling thought at the back of her mind. Hard to ignore, even harder to act on. 

Everything brings him to mind - headlights shining through her front window, the cozy knit blanket he curled up in like a cat on cold days, sunlit mornings where he’d drag her back into bed for a lazy wake up.

The dreams are vivid, and unforgettable and finally one morning when she wakes seeking the ghost of his arms, Hermione decides she’s had enough.

His voice is deep and sleepy when he answers on the third ring. “‘Mione?”

Her breath catches, all coherent thought getting caught up somewhere between her brain and her lips.

“I really hope this wasn’t a butt dial,” he sighs.

A small smile rises on her lips, even as the weight of what she let slip away settles in. “I miss you, Ron.”

“I wish - I wish you - wish we -”

“Come over?”


	8. Honest - HG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another! Hope you're enjoying these!!

Going back to Hogwarts had never quite felt this complicated before. Which is saying a lot, considering her history. She wasn’t exactly a stranger to years colored by dark magic, death, and horror but last year felt like something of a dark grand finale.

In some ways, it was as if she didn’t know what to expect. The six years had been clouded by the knowledge that Voldemort was returning, had returned, or was at large. Now she’s headed back with an odd mix of lightness knowing their world has been liberated and a tug at her heart remembering all those who were lost in the process. 

Though the one most didn’t expect to make it past his fifteenth birthday - god sometimes she half thinks its a dream until she finds him across the room, holds him in her arms. And now they’ll be separated by - too much space and too much time.

As if summoned by her thoughts, Harry drops into the grass next to her, head pillowed on her middle. “Gin.”

Sighing contentedly, Ginny runs her fingers through his hair, scratching gently at his scalp. “How was the Ministry?”

Harry’s eyes have drifted shut, dark lashes casting shadows on his cheekbones. “Crowded, a mess.”

“Bureaucratically or literally?”

His shoulders shake with laughter and his fingers find hers, knitting them together against her ribs. “Fifty-fifty.”

“Tell me about it?”

And in the unexpected way he has since her fifth year, Harry  _ does  _ tell her about it and Ginny relishes the fact that he’s so comfortable with her. That they’re together after everything - the silver lining’s not so hard to find most days.

Still, the last weeks of summer pass all too quickly and soon enough it’s August 31st and they haven’t even  _ talked  _ about the impending separation.

Nobody ever said Harry was a completely open book. Whatever his progress in the area or his trust in Ginny, he’s never going to find emotional introspection natural.

He is, however, big on gift giving as a demonstration of affection as is evidenced by his arrival at her bedroom door with a small package trimmed to the hilt with every frill imaginable. 

Harry’s smile is soft as he lingers on the threshold. “Alright?”

“Almost through packing,” Ginny shrugs, sitting down with a creak of bedsprings. 

After lingering a bit too awkwardly for somebody who’s had his tongue in her mouth, Harry claims her desk chair pale green flecked with little flower buds Luna’d painted one lazy afternoon in July.

Ginny accepts the parcel and fingers the metallic paper for a moment before tugging the tape free.  _ A whistle _ .

With a shrug, he picks at a hole in his jeans and murmurs, “It’s for Quidditch - you’re captain and I figured - ”

She slips the end between her lips and smirks. “My going away gift was better.”

Harry doesn’t flush like she hoped he would, and his eyes cloud instead of flashing with the heat allusions to a good snog usually arouses. No, now he looks a bit...sad.

“It’s alright if you’re upset I’m leaving,” Ginny tosses her hands, “Hell,  _ I’m  _ upset - I don’t want to leave you. We’ve got to do it but - but we’ve also got to tell each other the truth.”

“Trouble is, I want to be selfish. I want to ask you to stay - but I know I can’t,” a tear escapes down his cheek and he swipes at his nose messily, ducking his head.

Words, spoken and unspoken, hang between them like an invisible string gently connecting her heart to his. Then, he sniffles, so quiet and sad and childish and Ginny’s kneeling in front of him before she knows it. 

Her hands cup his cheeks, brushing the stray tears away. “I know - there’s a bit of me that wants to stay too.”

“But you can’t.”

“No.”

Harry grasps her wrists and holds her hands to his chest, thumbs brushing her skin. “And I know that - Gin. God I know. For so much of our - so much of our time together, it’s always been about  _ me _ ,” when Ginny makes to protest he adds, “Whether I wanted it to be or not.”

“Harry - ”

He plows ahead, pulling her to her feet and letting his palms rest on her waist, warm and sure as he stares up at her. “You came along, that night to save Sirius, no questions. You let me go, no questions. Just understood - I wanted. I needed to let you have something, have this - how could I not?”

After a minute, Ginny smiles gently and drags Harry from his perch and walks them backward toward her bed until they lie side by side, noses inches apart. Her voice is soft when she answers, “But you know, you know the problem’s not any of that. The problem’s you hiding things, eh?”

Harry’s fingers card through her hair, “Can’t help but notice you seem to have thought about this a lot.”

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps im not the only one hiding and repressing,” he says with a teasing grin, hands wandering south as hers find his shoulders. It’s intimate in the way that stops her breath, the way he pulls her close, the way her pulse matches his, the way his eyes soften as he watches her.

Tears rise to her eyes, unbidden. Though, the only time she’s ever  _ hoped  _ for tears was when looking to avoid Molly Weasley’s wrath. “What a pair we are, eh?”

His thumb brushes her cheek. “Considering, we’re pretty well adjusted.”

Ginny presses her forehead to his, lets their lips meet once, a second time, and what would be a third when Harry pulls away. “Can I stay?”

“You have to ask?”

Harry’s arms band around her waist and Ginny knits their legs together, content as he presses a short kiss to her forehead. It’s almost inaudible when he whispers. “Stay?”

“I wish I could.”

“Me too.”

She kisses the underside of his jaw, inhaling his clean, warm scent. “That’s enough.”


	9. Joy - HG

Harry feels a bit dull that he’s not the one to think of it. Perhaps he’s too busy either moping or following Ginny around in his best impression of a lovestruck fool. Which isn’t  _ that  _ high quality of an impression since it generally involves either snogging each other senseless or extensive levels of trash talking, dares, and teasing. All of which usually leads back to snogging eventually. 

Regardless, for someone raised a muggle and dying for a way to keep in touch easily across the miles between Holyhead and London, Harry feels pretty thick when  _ Arthur  _ solves his problem.

It’s late evening, the summer sun already well on the way to setting and Harry’s belly full of chicken Molly’d simultaneously crisped and kept gorgeously moist. He’s half reading a novel by some up and coming author in the magical community while Ginny dozes in his lap. She’s been working hard to make sure she’s up to snuff after the off season - early mornings, long runs, and a recent foray into the land of muggle calisthenics. 

Arthur scratches at his scalp and lets the half-read paper drop to his lap. “You know I had the nicest chat with your cousin last week at the park.”

Dog-earing the page, Harry sets his book on a free bit of the cushion. “Yeah? Ted had the best time, by the way.”

“He loves a good long chat and I love muggles,” Arthur says lightly, “We’re a well matched pair.”

Though he’d never broached the subject, Harry knew Arthur had made it a point to spend time with Teddy whenever he could. Ginny confided that Arthur and Ted had been close, that she was fairly sure he felt like with Ted gone, he’d have to do as the next best thing. It was all just guesswork until they walked in on the tail end of a particularly humorous story involving Arthur, Ted, and an outing to the grocer in London. 

“So Dudley?”

Arthur jolts out of his memory. “Oh, right! Well he had this delightful little pocket communicator. It made a cheery little chirp like an enchanted bird and then his mother was talking to him from all the way across the country. And we both know your aunt and uncle wouldn’t use anything remotely magical so - ” he sighs happily, “Muggles really are fascinating.”

Odd though the description may be, Harry does decipher Arthur’s clues. “His mobile?”

“Ah! Yes, that’s what he called it,” Arthur settles into his chair more comfortably while the fire crackles low in the grate, “You and Ginny should get a pair. Might help with the separation, eh?”

Separation was a fairly innocuous term for the event that generally made Harry’s chest feel like a gaping hole. Ginny stirs and Harry lets his fingers run through her wavy locks until she calms, settling against him so she’s nuzzled against his middle, exhales tickling his stomach.

“Maybe.”

* * *

It slips his mind, between the escalating raids in an attempt to snuff out the last best hopes of Riddle’s followers and Ginny’s occasionally overzealous workout routines. Generally, their evenings include more ice packs and pain potions than the sultry pursuits Ron seems sure they’re engaged in.

They manage to get an afternoon off together and spend it wandering through London huddled underneath a broad umbrella that looks like a frog’s head. Harry bought it for Ginny on a whim - a tribute to a certain pair of eyes green as fresh pickled toad. She shoved him and sniffed that it was in fact, not a pickled toad, but he hasn’t seen her use another umbrella since.

They splash through the streets, hearts light and bodies pressed close as they take in the sights of London at its grayest. Ginny’s face, lit with happiness, pulls him in so he nearly misses it, despite the bright pink neon sign blinking in the window - MOBILE PHONES. NO CONTRACT.

Harry comes to a halt, luckily keeping Ginny and the umbrella with him with his arm looped through hers as it is. Ginny pauses her discussion of Teddy and Victoire’s latest foray into the world of sand-based real estate development. Victoire had one of her first major bouts of accidental magic, splitting an oncoming wave around their castle with a shrill cry of distress. “What’s up? Weasley’s hungry.”

Harry chuckles. “Evidenced by your use of the third person.”

“Hermione?”

“Excuse me, I am an educated investigator with highly honed powers of observation.”

She lingers, blinking at him.

“And Hermione has been on a grammar kick.”

Ginny presses a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sexy. Now what have we stopped for? I don’t want a picked over Chinese buffet.”

“What if we could talk while you’re off in Holyhead?”

A few fellow pedestrians give them grumpy looks so Harry pulls Ginny beneath the overhang. “We could get mobile phones - your dad said he could help me adapt them to stay useable in magical areas.”

Ginny laughs. “My dad - a high ranking ministry official - and my boyfriend a well respected Auror, plotting to flout the Statute of Secrecy. Does he know you want to use it to have dirty,  _ dirty  _ conversations with me?”

“Stuff it.”

* * *

The phones are clunky, odd little things. Ginny insists on the colorful choices - her’s green for the Harpies and Harry’s eyes, and his red because he’s a ‘brave little Gryffindor’ and her hair  _ of course _ . It’s odd, adjusting to the immediate nature of their communication but it doesn’t take long. Then, somehow Harry finds his heart warming and his pulse thrumming like Ginny’s at his side when the phone rumbles on the countertop.

Despite her teasing, the large majority of their conversations comprise teasing and more often than not quiet companionship. He’s already bought more talk time by the bucket load. Though Ginny insists they do their best to avoid falling asleep and using up their connection time just to breathe together. They do a pretty good job of it for a while, until Ginny gets a cold and Harry returns from a week long assignment and he dozes to the tune of her stuffy snores.

She’s the spectrum of life, Ginny is - steady breaths, boisterous barks of laughter, playful teasing, no nonsense drawls that bring him back down to earth. Nobody’s ever known him like she does, even ages away, Ginny’s his silver lining.


	10. Feels Right - JL

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is number 10 and its a longer-ish fill comparatively...just over 1,100 words.

It’s funny how easily they went from metaphorically dancing around each other for three semesters - one of which was a hellish statistics course taken in the abbreviated summer session - to literally dancing around each other. And with her hand on his arse to boot.

If she’s being completely honest and rational, this is a  _ really  _ bad idea. Graduation is in less than a month, she’s still applying for jobs in an uncharacteristically indiscriminate manner, and her grades in Scope and Methods are  _ highly  _ suspect. 

Really, she shouldn’t be out except Marlene  _ finally  _ got accepted to that amazing fellowship and after months of agonizing  _ needed  _ to celebrate. Now, champagne bubbles that tickled Lily’s nose fill her belly, make her feel as though her feet could leave the floor. Basically her entire life is up in the air and right now it feels like James’ stare is the only thing pinning her to the earth.

Bubbly makes her feel feel light, loosens her tongue, and gets her to give in to the urge to slip her hand in James’ back pocket and tug his hips toward hers.

Neither one of them is particularly  _ sultry  _ at the moment, their dance more an exhilarated bop than a sexy grind but damn it if James isn’t a tempting little arsehole when he’s tipsy. Or maybe it’s because  _ she’s  _ tipsy.

Since tonight is apparently honesty hour, LIly will admit - albeit in the privacy of her own mind - that she  _ always  _ finds James to be a tempting little arsehole. Even at eight in the morning when she’s running on two hours of sleep and four shots of espresso.

And James is always a ‘touchy-feely’ sort - but once Lily’s nearing three sheets to the wind territory and nowhere near her cottony  _ bed  _ sheets, well nobody can really blame her for giving in to certain baser instincts.

Resisting would be easier if it was just a cute arse at issue - but James is a cute, cheeky, kind, brilliant arse that she wants to  _ cuddle  _ and take to the farmers market just as much as she wants to - well. Do the nighttime, horizontal tango. She’s even open to some non horizontal variations if she can either see or cup certain...assets.

Sirius would be making her life a living hell right now if he wasn’t caught up hustling darts in the corner while Peter collects on bets. She’s not so lucky in terms of Remus, who  _ really  _ loves to do that whole knowing smile bit with the raised eyebrows. Someday she  _ will  _ give in and smack him.

Today, tonight, she has more important things on her mind.

Like the fact that James’ cheeky grin has gone...sly. As if his wicked tongue is ready for something  _ other _ than matching wits. One of Lily’s favorite bops -  _ yes  _ it is a bop - blares through the club and James draws her arms around his neck before his palms rest on her hips.

He dips his head close, lips brushing her cheekbone before he murmurs, “Fancy getting out of here, Evans?”

And then they’re stumbling out the door and into a taxi while Lily sends Marlene a moderately coherent text that she’s not dead, dying, or whatever else her friend’s worst-case-scenario mind might come up with.

Lowered as Lily’s inhibitions are, she still doesn’t feel like giving the driver a free show and honestly just the skittering of James’ breaths on her neck has her practically vibrating out of her skin.

They go to hers - it’s closest and doesn’t have the possibility of Remus, Sirius, and Peter showing up in the next hour or so - and take a rather chaste ride in the lift. Aside from the daring hemline of her glittery skirt and James perpetual sex hair, they’re a respectable looking couple. 

Until the doors open on her floor and then it’s all  _ very  _ real and  _ very  _ irresistible. Now, now his hands are in her hair and hers are tugging up the hem of his t-shirt and their quiet giggles turn to contented sighs.

She fumbles the door lock - whether it’s caused by James’ ministrations or her inebriated state is to be determined - and then they stumble into her dark flat. She does have enough presence of mind to thank four-thirty Lily for not making a complete mess of things and leads James through the living area to her bedroom.

It’s cute, she has to say, the stuff of Pinterest boards. She’s got polaroids pinned to the wall in clumps, fairy lights strewn over the four posters of her bed, a fluffy blanket pillowing the top of her bed. Add in a few succulents and she’s practically an influencer.

And then her eyes find James, with his stupid muscled forearms and tan skin, the dumb hipster glasses and plaid overshirt to match - she should want to smack him not shag him. But the heart wants what it wants.

He’s finished his perusal of her room, stumbling over to her bookcase like a little baby deer and blinking at the spines as he drags his finger alongside them, his only comments in the form of furrowed brows or familiar smiles.

Eventually, he wanders toward her bed and drops down, bouncing on the springs and fingering the bedspread. “Nice room.”

Lily kicks off her heels and settles next to him and kicks her legs out in front of her - clean shaven but a few bruises from helping Dorcas move last weekend - and lets them thud back against the bed frame. “Thanks.”

James links his pinky over hers and lets out a long sigh. “I - I think I’m pretty drunk, LIl.”

Hearing that there will not be any more snogging etcetera from a drunken James who calls her ‘Lil’ really should not be a turn on, but apparently nothing is as it should be tonight.

Honestly, as much as she was looking forward to having her wicked way with him - and vice versa - some small part of her is relieved. Not that there’s any doubt in her mind that this  _ will  _ happen. More that she’s glad it won’t be something they can write off as a drunken mistake. Everything about James feels big,  _ is  _ big, and she’s glad they’re not flubbing their chance.

He’s biting his lip and looking at her with big wide adorable hazel eyes she could swim in. “I didn’t - feels like it’s all just hitting me now.”

Lily winks. “How about an  _ actual  _ Neflix and chill - I’ve been in the mood for a Last Airbender rewatch.”

James brightens. “I’ve never watched - ”

“Oh my god no,” Lily gasps, “Get your shoes off, this is happening.”

“Bossy in bed,” James says with a grin, “Why am I not surprised?”

“Shut up, it’s time for my son Aang.”

Lily scoots up the bed and grabs her laptop from the night table, gesturing to the spot beside her. “Now get up here and pet my hair.”


	11. Smile - HG

Post-victory Ginny can take many forms, and determining which is fairly impossible. She knows it too. Harry could be in for an evening of raucous partying with her teammates, a veritable assault on Ginny’s favorite all-you-can-eat by their flat, or an equally _ enthusiastic _albeit more private evening in said flat.

If pressed, Harry and Ginny have a particular soft spot for the latter. And being honest, things usually end up there no matter how the evening starts. Tonight, though, was too big a victory to neglect the team party, regardless of personal inclinations. Plus, Harpy parties are nothing to sneeze at either - a fully catered, open bar situation with dancing and laughter and more than a few jokes about Harry, their resident mascot.

Things have quieted, more than a few pitchers of beer put away by the team, and greasy bar food gobbled down with enthusiasm. Harry and Ginny had participated in both without hesitation, leaving them feeling muzzy and cuddly overall. The post-game excitement has tapered and Ginny finds her face tucked into Harry’s neck as they sway in the corner of the dancefloor. 

Harry’s hands run absent circuits over her back, occasionally dipping places polite company might not approve. Though no one’s ever called a Harpy ‘polite company.’

“Getting fresh, Potter?”

“You know watching you win gets me all hot and bothered.”

Ginny hums, “Yet another motivating factor.”

“No wonder Gwenog loves me,” Harry murmurs against Ginny’s hairline. Her answering chuckle rumbles in her chest.

Before she can continue their little private party pre-game - because the only thing better than a post-win private party was one that was _ also _preceded by some witty and slightly tipsy repartee - the music shifts to a wild rhythmic tune. 

Pulling away, Ginny blinks up at Harry, “Shall we head off - ”

Harry twirls her out and pulls her back in with a dangerous grin. “Sensual dancing is part of the human mating ritual. Allow me to entice you with my gyrations.”

Then, to Ginny’s surprise, Harry makes good on his offer and rolls his hips in jerky circuits, twisting hers with him. Her laughter rings out, muffled by the thumping base and then by Harry’s neck as she tucks her face in his shoulder. “You’re mad.”

“I’m _ sexy _ \- ask _ Witch Weekly _.”

He performs a few more thrusts and throws in a shimmy, brows wriggling flirtatiously. Ginny fans herself. “What a man.”

“Thank you for acknowledging.”

“Now really, how many have you had?” Ginny asks as Harry switches over to some poorly executed imitation of a tango. He’s rapidly losing any coherent hold on the actual rhythm and Ginny’s belly aches with laughter.

“You know what, Gin? I only had _ one. _I just have a lot of angst - ”

“A given.”

“And it’s finally been _ released _now that you’ve won,” Harry continues with a glare, “Being a fan is stressful.”

“Well there must be a way I can assist,” Ginny drawls, slotting her body firmly against Harry’s, “Any requests?”


	12. Me! - HG

Harry takes in photographic Ginny’s flushed face one more time, the tremor in her arm, and the very real sparks at the tip of her wand before letting the paper fall to the table limply. He can’t quite blame her but also - this is kind of a mess.

He’s not quite sure how long he’s sitting there musing on the subject before his wards ring, the front door slams open and then closed, and finally Ginny appears in the kitchen entryway. She looks as contrite as he’s ever seen her. 

Which isn’t much - Ginny apologizes but not like your average witch or wizard. It’s always, ‘I’ll be better’ - the future. A nice change from his tendency to ruminate in self reflection to a potentially destructive degree. Ginny says it’s his ‘hot, brooding auror’ shtick. Mostly, in hindsight, it makes him feel like a dramatic arse.

Ginny slips the strap of her bag over her head and slings it on one of the free chairs before claiming a seat for herself. She picks at the table for a moment before her eyes, and fingers, find the copy of the Prophet. Special delivery courtesy of Rita Skeeter. What a thoughtful woman.

“That blood sucking leech - this happened  _ today _ .”

Harry bites his lip. “It is the evening edition.”

“She’s probably had all this shite planned since Thursday,” Ginny growls as her hands clench around the paper, “I really hate that woman.”

“Likely did - which is why generally - ”

“It’s preferable not to engage,” Ginny finishes, “But seriously Harry she just.”

“I mean, I think it was amazing,” Harry says and quotes, “‘Keep your shrewish nose out of other people’s business and try to be a valuable member of society’ - amazing! Also crazy.”

Blinking at Harry with coquettish eyes, Ginny leans her chin on her palm and simpers, “Yes, but isn’t that what you love  _ most  _ about me?”

Harry fiddles with the paper, absent. “I feel like you want me to say yes.”

“Don’t be a little arse - if you didn’t have me,” Ginny starts as she crosses to the stove and sets the kettle on, “Who would tell Rita Skeeter to shove that little camera up her - ”

He twists around to watch as she prepares two mugs to each of their preference, roots around in the cabinets, presumably looking for his not-so-secret stash of chocolate digestives. His life would be much simpler if he could choose just one thing he loved most about Ginny Weasley. “Yes, that’s definitely just you.”

The water heats quickly, thanks to a little cheating courtesy of Ginny’s wand. Soon there are two steaming mugs and a plate full of biscuits settling on the table in front of Harry, one cheeky girlfriend emerging from the kitchen close behind.

After doctoring his tea to his liking, Harry takes a careful sip and watches Ginny as she does the same. Though she pauses to dunk her biscuit first, then bites into it with relish. She’s a damn firecracker in everything.

Smiling softly, Harry inches closer and lays his hand palm up on the table. “Sparking wand and harsh words - not the worst Rita’s gotten from one of us.”

Ginny hums and knits her fingers with his. “Yes, but that level of wit on such short notice - I promise you’ll never find another like me, dear.”

Shaking his head, Harry lifts Ginny’s hand and presses a kiss to her knuckles. “You are…”

“Awesome,” Ginny supplies with a wink, “Yes, I know.”

With a chuckle, Harry waves her closer and soon enough she’s perched on his knee. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I would say all this blustering seems like your general behavior when you’re actually really rankled about something.”

“Luckily you do know better,” Ginny laughs back, though it’s a bit hollow.

Her forehead drops to his and Harry murmurs, “You’re an amazing, fiery, unpredictable thing, Gin.”

Ginny presses a kiss to his forehead. “I just. I hated that a moment I wished had never happened was fodder for that little twit.”

“My romantic experience is fairly minimal, as you know,” Harry says, quiet, “But we’re bound to have arguments. Probably be stronger for it.”

Her laugh is watery this time, her fingers toying with his messy locks. “Look at you being all mature and well adjusted.”

“Clearly I need to be - we take turns,” Harry teases, brushing his hands beneath the hem of her t-shirt. She shivers at his touch and cuddles closer.

They’re quiet for a handful of moments before Harry finally speaks, “The real question is who’ll be more ticked at you - Molly or Gwenog?”

“Are you kidding? This is like prime Harpy behavior. I may get a raise.”


	13. NFWMB - HG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS ONE IS A LIL SULTRY

She sees the headline before anything.

He’s been away more than home over the last six months, and even when he’s beside her it takes hours of warmth shared skin-to-skin for his brows to relax from the perpetual furrow. And now, now it seems as if he’ll soon be home for good. For now.

The color photograph shifts, though his hardened expression barely flinches under the undoubtedly tenacious questioning of the press corps. Studying him closely, it’s easy to find the scrapes and bruises camouflaged by his overgrown beard, see the blood caught in his coarse whiskers and staining his long coat. Each time the picture circuits around to the beginning, the light flashes against the pale scar on his forehead, casting his face in eerie shadow.

On nights like these, he never returns home. On nights like these he’ll be hidden away from everyone, including her. But not for long.

Within the hour, she finds herself on familiar cliffs, fog rolling in off a tumultuous sea, the nearest living person a day’s walk away. Save him. 

Damp grasses sway at her waist, the cottage almost abandoned by looks if not for the slim curl of smoke rising against the grey sky. She presses her palm against the aged wood and it warms beneath her fingertips, opening with a click.

The room glows orange, firelight illuminating his silhouette and slowly driving the chill from her bones. Though not as quickly as he will. 

His first words are as they often are when they come together here, feigned surprise, a bit of dry disapproval - but his eyes reveal the truth as flames whirl in the reflection of his gaze.

It’s like a dance, a delicious prelude as they move about the room, eyes seeking but hands chaste. His lips lie in a taut line, firm only until she forces them to part with gasps of pleasure wrung from his throat. 

But first, their hands breach the gap, with slow mapping, relearning as the layers peel away - his coat, then hers, hair released in cascading waves. Then it’s lips, breaths shared as neither commits to the final press, neither breaks the spell woven around the room, around them. 

Until they do and then it’s a flame licking up a slip of parchment, gradual, teasing, and all-consuming. Time is told by the trickle of sweat tripping down her spine, the slow rhythm as they move together, the charged press of his lips to her hip bone.

Her chest bows toward him, his hands pull her closer. The house creaks with the whipping wind and mirrors the tempest of their sighs, his final shuddering groan against her neck. 


	14. Walk Me Home - JL

_ Thank God it’s Friday _ . People say it all the time, it’s a major part of society - ‘TGIF, right Bill?’ ‘Right-o Pamela’ - it’s pretty much a requirement of human existence at this point.

Today, though, today Lily will thank God, the universe, whoever invented the Gregorian Calendar, and personally kiss whoever established the 5-day work week in complete and utter gratitude. 

Friday has never looked so good - even a waterlogged, blustery, grey autumn night.

This weekend, her wild plans were pretty much to walk home with an uncharacteristic scowl, enter her flat, and only open for Chinese takeaway. A delivery which will be excessive enough to feed her through Sunday night, which facilitates her plan of complete avoidance of the rest of the human race. In fact, aside from a couple emergency contacts, she’s seriously considering eliminating all cell phone and email contact possibilities - streaming telly and that stack of books on her bedside table will be her only companions.

It may seem dramatic to the outsider, particularly since she can’t quite point to a singular event motivating this impromptu foray into the land of hermits, but horrid weather, four pairs of torn stockings in as many days, a lost debit card, and about four thousand little things going the exact  _ wrong  _ way at work. Plus, her usual commute partner is currently at home battling a nasty case of the sniffles. Understandable, exactly what she  _ told  _ Remus to do, but from a purely selfish examination of the situation, an unenjoyable nail in the proverbial coffin.

Basically, the week was a wave of shite that Lily has ridden into the weekend. 

Given the luck she’s experienced this week, Lily’s shocked to find that her umbrella and wellies are not as necessary as she’d have guessed. The streets glisten beneath the golden lamplight, while traffic trundles past.

She’s a bit overtired - her neighbor’s cat has been particularly nocturnally active this week - so Lily simply stares dumbly as one of the passing taxis splashes through a wide puddle, heedless of the impending deluge.

Until a slim arm bands around her middle and drags her backward. She’s about to jab her assailant where the sun doesn’t shine when he laughs quietly in her ear. “Alright, Evans?”

Sighing, Lily relaxes back into his arms and mutters, “So who told you?”

James sets her on her feet and grins. “About the shite week or the pretzels,” he asks, nodding to his free hand.

“Oh my - you are literally the greatest human in existence,” Lily groans, grabbing for the buttery baked goodness.

He digs around for a napkin in his jacket pocket and lifts one of the still steaming pretzels from the paper sack before rolling the top closed again. “Remus is quite adept at guilt, both self inflicted and the laid trip kind.”

“You didn’t have to come,” Lily murmurs, accepting the pretzel and biting in with a grateful moan, “Guilty conscience or not.”

“See - don’t start with that again,” James says, as Lily knits her free arm through his and steers them toward her flat.

“Start what?” Lily asks, the picture of innocence.

“I won Monopoly fair and square - ”

“I was winning the whole bloody time and then a couple bad turns and - ”

“The perils of a fickle economy.”

“Sirius practically  _ gave  _ you that last railroad,” Lily grumbles, ripping another buttery bite free with her teeth. 

“Can’t a mate want to walk another mate home after a shite week and  _ not  _ have an ulterior motive?”

“Not when said mate brings other said mate’s favorite comfort snack,” Lily says primly, then glances at the bag in James’ hand, “If you don’t eat that soon, I’m not responsible for my actions.”

James grins, his eyes crinkling behind his rain speckled glasses, “Believe me, they’re both for you. I saw those shark eyes last time we went on a group shop day - I don’t stand between Lily Evans and soft pretzels.”

“See, I feel like you’re trying to shame me,” Lily says, shaking her head as she accepts the second pretzel and takes a nibble, “But as you said, today was shite and I would eat my weight in these if you let me.”

They pause at the crosswalk, a few paces back to avoid another near puddle assault, and Lily relaxes against his arm. James tosses the empty bag in a nearby bin with expert accuracy and rubs her chilled fingers. “We could always hit up the stand…”

“Dangerous thing to say, good sir,” Lily laughs, quiet. “Don’t whet my appetite without the intention of feeding it.”

“You forget I work with big cats for a living, Evans,” James says with a grin, “I know how to manage a healthy appetite.”

James pulls them to a halt and Lily’s surprised to see they’ve reached her flat. He lets her arm drop, fingers lingering at hers for barely a moment. Taking her in from head to toe, James steps backward and ruffles his hair. “So - I assume you’ve got some party of one plans for the evening. I’ll get out of your hair.”

Lily grasps his coat sleeve and drags him close enough to press a short, but no less meaningful kiss to his lips. They’re chapped, a bit cold in contrast to the deep exhale he makes when she pulls back. 

He looks fairly gobsmacked and Lily can’t hold back the triumphant smile that tickles her mouth. “I’m off to use that lavender bath bomb Remus gave me for my birthday.”

James’ eyes widen rather comically though he does manage to grind out a question, “Is that an invitation?”

Smirking, Lily slaps his shoulder, her fingers lingering at his wooly lapel. “I don’t do baths on the first date.”

He gapes, so Lily elaborates, “You pretty much kidnapped me on a date - food, lots of touching, flirty banter - ”

When she lets the accusation dangle, James recovers some of his faculties and wriggles his brows, “I mean I can’t really turn off my charisma.”

Which it seems, is fairly true. At least in Lily’s particular case, because she leans forward and kisses him again, longer and lingering. Just as James’ arms rise to wrap around her waist, Lily breaks the connection and sighs. 

James chases after her a bit, stealing a few more kisses and murmuring against her mouth, “You ate my pretzel, let me get a taste at least.”

Snickering, Lily does as he asks until her head swirls with the scent of cinnamon gum, rain, and  _ James _ . But it has been a shite week, her hair is a mess, she’s got a run in her stockings, and her back aches from hauling file boxes to and from the storeroom. “Alright alright, let me go soak. Then come by after noon.” tomorrow. I should be human again.”

James’ knuckles brush her rosy cheek. “For a bath?”

She shoves him. “Good  _ night  _ James.”

With a wink, he walks backward a few steps and raises his hand in a parting wave. “G’night Lily.”


	15. Falling Like the Stars - HG

It’s an odd feeling, getting exactly what you want and still feeling a conflicting tug. That’s exactly what she feels, every time she leaves to catch a portkey with the rest of the team. The minute that twist forms in her center as she grips the bit of rubbish, it’s like a thread tying her to home, to  _ him _ , is about to snap. 

It won’t, they won’t, but there’s an ever whirring corner of her mind on an endless cycle of  _ HarryHarryHarry  _ she can’t escape. Almost as if the perpetual remembrance will protect him until she can see him with her own eyes, hold him in her arms.

There’s a bit of guilt too - self inflicted of course because Harry’s not got a selfish bone in his body. Not when it comes to her. She’s had to convince him that she  _ wants  _ to know everything, what he wants, needs, thinks - that it’s not selfish to tell her it all. The guilt comes nonetheless, when she leaves and finds herself the subject of chanted cheers and raving headlines while he’s shuttled off to some dreary, gloomy crime-scene. But it’s what has to be done. He’s a trainee still, and even if he wasn’t Harry’s infamous hero complex hardly vanished with the beginning of his twentieth year on earth. She’s barely got more flexibility, being on a winning team is exactly what she wants, and yet every win has a tinge of bittersweet. Not that she’d ever say so to anyone - particularly Gwenog who’d have her hide for the sentiment.

They write, she and Harry do, floo when possible. He sends silly gifts and she buys postcards and cheap lipstick for the sole purpose of pressing flirty kisses to the back. 

She sends the first four in quick succession, after she’s hopped her way across the continent for some exhibition games and finally Harry makes it to the sixth game, slipping his way past security and dragging her into a broom closet. He’s flushed and she’s ecstatic with victory. 

He’s shoved back against the dingy wall while she begins to reacquaint herself with every gasp and sigh she’s ever drawn from his chapped lips when he murmurs. “I got your post.”

Ginny pulls away just enough to see the blush on his cheeks, the pleased tilt of his lips. “Did I embarrass you?”

His hair’s grown since she left, almost lank with the weight of it, dragging across his forehead and that faded scar. Ginny cups his jaw and he answers, “Nah, I have a collage going - lip side out, I should clarify.”

“Works of art they are,” Ginny murmurs against his mouth.

Harry’s hands draw her closer, though their lips still hover, not touching, not yet. “I’m quite the aficionado, I have to say.”

“And what do your co-workers have to say?” Ginny asks, nose grazing his, the anticipation nearly suffocating. Sometimes she thinks the wait makes the final touch all the better - the sweetness of that first gasp of air after a deep dive.

“A bit jealous - save Ron,” Harry laughs, his eyes crinkling behind fingerprinted spectacles, “He either shakes his head or bares his teeth a bit and growls.”

“What a wanker.”

“He’s alright,” Harry says, quiet.

“Enough about my brother, eh?” Ginny answers, their lips only just brushing.

Non verbally, Harry seems to agree, but it’s not enough time. It never is. Just stolen moments in broom cupboards. At times, at her worst moments, she thinks maybe that’s all they’ll ever have since that’s all they’ve ever  _ had _ . But it’s different now, she knows, reminds herself. They’ve got a lifetime. 

Still, sometimes it seems a lifetime could be shorter than she’d like, than anyone would. He’s been in Mungo’s too many times to count and really she’s not much better. Though nobody  _ actually  _ wants her dead. Except that arsehole Tutshill Chaser who’s threatened by anybody of the feminine persuasion that can handle a quaffle.

However much she hates leaving when he’s traipsing to kingdom come chasing down some new dark threat, it’s lightyears worse when she’s home, waiting, without the distraction of daily games.

Training at least, keeps her busy enough, and that photo they snapped on their holiday at the beach stays tucked in her locker where Harry can wink at her over the rim of dark sunglasses. She gets her fair share of ribbing - equal parts about how she’s gone soft and just how wild the  _ Man _ -Who-Lived gets in the bedroom. 

And some days, like today, she slogs home with sore muscles to Cassanova blinking at her impatiently. After tossing a few treats his way, Ginny accepts the owl’s burden and finds Harry’s messy scrawl on the yellowed parchment. 

_ Home late. Too many reports and a certain red head has a dinner with in-laws. Perhaps I was hasty about your idea with the ever-itch powder. _

_ Love, HJP _

He doodled something like a snitch in the bottom corner and a couple of stick figures - presumably the two of them - battling it out on an imaginary pitch. That’s when she decides he’s too adorably endearing to be shut up in the Ministry alone and makes her way to the little Indian place down the street. 

Soon enough she’s striding through the empty halls of the Ministry, deliciously spiced meal in hand, braid bouncing on her shoulder. Harry startles and nearly flips his chair when she presses a kiss to his ear and then their food’s forgotten. 

His breath smells of stale, burnt coffee and she’s sporting  _ eau de bear crawl _ and yet neither seems to mind. It’s warm and easy and  _ home _ .

Bodies do require sustenance and soon her stomach protests the accidental fasting with a long, loud grumble. Then they’re cozied up on the floor of his office, stealing bites, swapping easy gossip and never breaking contact. 

Ginny’s just snatched one of his last prawns with expert use of her chopsticks and Harry looks up at her, eyes wide and lips tilted in a gentle smile. “Love you.”

She slants her mouth over his, long and sweet, then murmurs, “Love you.”

The cycle starts again after that stolen night, he’s off to Eastern Europe and she’s selected for a series of exhibition games, arriving home three days before Harry’s impending homecoming. However tiring gameplay is, the press afterward is infinitely worse. She does her best, combing out the rats nest of her hair, swiping chapstick over her lips, pulling on a fresh team jacket. Today she’d dropped her chapstick in the toilet and decided against using  _ that  _ particular item again, dragging the red lipstick on instead. She could tease Harry with photos from the junket later. 

Now, she’s ready to collapse in a puddle and perhaps have some very grown up dreams about her Harry’s svelte little bum.

Tired as she is, Ginny nearly collapses in fright when said bum seems to have appeared as an apparition in the kitchen. Followed by the rest of Harry as he rises from his crouch examining the contents of the fridge.

He turns. “Need to have a shop.”

Ginny lifts a brow. “Ron’s turn - he ate it all and left for the coast with the Grangers.”

“He really uses them as - ” Harry freezes, “Your - your lips.”

It takes her a moment, a barely there swipe with the tip of her tongue, to realize exactly why Harry’s brain half shut down. “You’ve never seen the real thing, eh?”

“I uh- no,” Harry grinds out, gaze never leaving her lips even as he inches closer.

Ginny draws him close, fingers clenching in the front of his undershirt. “Like it?”

He bobs his head in a nod. “Like it.”

Pulling him toward the den, Ginny whispers, “I’ll show you how I make those lovely prints.”


	16. Ring of Fire - HG

It was a strange series of events that lead to Harry Potter being one of the most in demand stunt doubles in Hollywood. Sirius swore it was hereditary, the ‘adrenaline junkie gene’ he called it. Mum called it Harry’s need to torture her and see her grey before her time. Dad said he was a chip off the block and asked for celebrity gossip. 

Since he was a kid, Harry loved action and acting and while he wasn’t the main dish on the buffet of celebrity there was a certain amount of performance in the physicality of his jobs. Too stiff, too loose, or too gawky and a sequence could shake the audience from the story. Plus, there was the added challenge of matching his movements to the actor he was shadowing. 

His specialties generally involved martial arts based fight sequences and anything exploiting the fact that he was the “professional driver on a closed course” guy.

His favorites - if he had to choose - were shoots with Weasley. It started about five years back when the two romantic leads were cast in a film series that was somehow a blockbuster  _ and  _ critically acclaimed. This mattered to Harry - beyond his general interest in enjoyable films - because the leading man was in fact a tall, lanky bloke with dark hair as was a certain aforementioned adrenaline junkie.

Weasley was hired almost at the same time, the ideal match for the red-headed female lead. Their characters begin as sort of reluctant allies, which means some up close and personal fight scenes were almost top on the agenda, after a few dramatic motorcycle stunts where Harry’s character escapes a would-be kidnapper. 

He and Weasley filmed their scene together next, and normally the choreography takes some time to get flowing, to feel real  _ and  _ elegant. But they walk through it a handful of times and then do the first full-out test and Weasley is a fiery menace like he’s never seen. And while Sirius would most definitely make fun of him for saying so, when she locked her knees around his throat and knocked him to the ground, he’d never found someone quite so attractive.

As soon as the take ended, she grinned at him dangerously and offered a hand up. “I look forward to kicking your arse again soon, Potter.”

And  _ that  _ was the moment he began to fall in love.

Which would be the second reason Sirius would make fun of him. It has been five years, three sequels, and about a million hours of practices and filming and Harry has yet to even make an attempt at a romantic overture. Well, there was one time he nearly got there, while filming the sequel, but in between takes she mentioned a boyfriend and Harry withdrew back into his proverbial hermit shell. 

Still, they talk, exchange barbs and teasing, and Ginny is still the most tempting woman he’s ever seen and she sets his heart racing faster than any stunt. 

Sequel four is a step up on all fronts - more speed, more danger, and their characters will  _ finally  _ get together it seems. Harry takes small comfort in the fact that he won’t be teased with Ginny’s false kisses. Leave that to the actual actors and preserve what’s left of his sanity.

They arrive on set for the first time nearly simultaneously, chatting while they saunter toward the soundstage, Ginny sipping one of those energy drinks that’s the size of her forearm and he swallows down a deliciously prepared frappuccino with more whipped cream than coffee. 

As usual, Ginny wraps him in a hug and then proceeds to eviscerate his choice of beverage. “Keeping that body in full on weaponized form, eh?”

“I have a sweet tooth.”

“A tooth which will fall out of your head if you keep eating sugar coated sugar lumps.”

“I didn’t know you cared,” Harry simpers, grasping his chest, “I’m touched, Weasley.”

She takes a long swallow of her drink and Harry gestures at her own drink, “You know too much caffeine could kill you.”

“Says the adrenaline-junkie stunt man.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

Ginny links her free arm through his and they saunter toward the set. “Dunno if you took a gander at the script - ”

“I’d be a shite stuntman if I hadn’t - ”

She raises her brows and Harry pinches her arm, but she plows ahead, “But I am loads more badass than you in this one.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“What else would it be?”

Which is what kicks off the subtle, on set dare war that leads to applause from the crew, a very happy director, and Harry making his greatest stunt involving jumping through fire. It’ll definitely make it through cuts but he wouldn’t mind having the scene for his private collection.

He dismounts from the motorcycle - a beautifully souped up onyx Ducati that follows Ginny on his list of attractive things in the world - and lifts the helmet from his head. “How about that, Weasley?”

“Damn, you’re on fire.”

“I know I’m even a little - ”

Ginny shakes her head. “No you’re really - someone get me a blanket to smother this!”

“Holy - ”

It doesn’t take much to extinguish the flames, and honestly Harry’s had worse over the years, but crashing down so fantastically after what was a perfect high made of equal parts ego and excitement was a tough pill to swallow.

The director calls for a break and Harry’s checked by the on-set paramedic before Ginny returns to his side. “Alright?”

“S’pose,” Harry sighs, ruffling his hair, “All the important bits seem intact.”

“No need for dramatics and embarrassed blushing.”

“See saying you  _ noticed  _ my blush is not helpful.”

“Harry - god. I fancy the pants off you. Regardless of the pyrotechnics.”

His heart stutters in his chest, “Is this a trauma induced hallucination?”

“No.”

“You fancy me,” Harry says flatly. 

“Yes,” Ginny answers, knocking her shoulder into his, “And we can have a date when you don’t smell like barbecue.”

“Not nice.”

“I mean, you  _ are  _ smoking hot.”

“Stuff it.”

“Baby I know you can keep us hot all night long, but can you spark up some good conversation?” Ginny murmurs, linking their fingers together.

“Maybe I don’t fancy you.”

Ginny shakes her head. “Already forgetting me now that you’ve got your claim to flame.”

“This is the actual worst. I almost died,” Harry tries to grumble, which is difficult as he’s attempting to suppress his laughter.”

“Don’t die on me - you’re hotter than a 5 alarm fire.”

“I hate you.”


	17. The Ballad of John and Yoko - HG

They meet for the first time in the garden portion of the Tudor House & Garden in Southampton, like part of some Jane Austen novel with more cell phones and less _ quadrilles _ . Though they _ do _dance a bit, avoiding each other and the guided tour until an encounter becomes unavoidable near a meticulously trimmed hedge on the west end of the garden.

“Potter.”

“So you _ were _avoiding me,” he says with a stupidly attractive grin.

Ginny rolls her eyes. “Seemed pretty mutual.”

He kicks at the gravel with a surprisingly ratty trainer and shrugs. “Thought it was only right - you were pretty,” he ruffles his hair, thoughtful, “_ intense _in your efforts.”

“Our last encounter wasn’t particularly - ”

He laughs, like it surprises him, and swipes the tears from his cheeks. “Twitter is a dumpster fire.”

“My manager was so cheesed off at me - though at the time I was pretty B-list in terms of fame and who knew hackers would care if I was trashing your film on a dummy account.”

“It was pretty shite,” Harry allows, “the film, not the - well no your review was rough too.”

And somehow, that evening they end up locked in his hotel room, shouting and sweaty.

Groaning, Harry drops back against the couch cushions and throws his arm over his eyes. “Shite you’re - ”

“Amazing?”

“Well yeah - how did - ”

“A lady never reveals her secrets,” Ginny drawls, coy.

“But seriously - a perfect score on Mario Party - a game that is literally nonsense?”

“Don’t be jealous, dear.”

* * *

After that, their meetings are less chance but equally as clandestine. And strangely remain just as chaste. In fact, Ginny’s beginning to wonder if she’s entered into a devastating game of unrequited _ possibly _or at least soon to be love. 

_ Gross _.

Tonight, well tonight is really not helping.

She has a reshoot outside Edinburgh and _ he’s _recording a live EP with a few local friends over the weekend and now - now he’s in her rented flat cooking something delicious and dancing to her throwback Apple Music playlist and - 

_ Yeah, this is a nightmare. _

Until, suddenly, dinner turns into everything she could have dreamed of and cheeky teasing turns to slow kisses and softer touches.

* * *

Daylight doesn’t break through the blackout curtains, as expected given the name, and Ginny was really looking forward to a very late lie in. Until her mobile made other plans.

“Ugh, Hermione _ knows _ I’m beat after this week _ and _that I enable calls from my favorites,” Ginny groans into Harry’s chest.

He lets out a lazy chuckle and kneads Ginny’s shoulder. “Perhaps you should reassess your choice in _ favorites _.”

Ginny pushes up on her elbow, hair a veritable rat’s nest around her face, and presses her lips to his chest and hums. “If she’s calling you know what it means - ”

“We’ve been found out.”

She nods and slips one leg over his hips, her mouth finding his in a long, deep kiss. “Affirmative - we’ll have to face them.”

“Another thirty minutes won’t hurt anyone,” Harry groans as her teeth find his earlobe.

“My thoughts exactly,” Ginny says with a smirk.

And it doesn’t - much as Hermione asserts the contrary an hour and a half later when Ginny finally answers her mobile. “So dramatic.”

“You don’t pay me enough.”

“Press?”

“Outside,” Hermione says, trying to tamp down the laughter in her voice. She’s always been a sucker for Weasley antics. “Put on some clothes, cover whatever _ contusions _you might have inflicted on each other - ”

“Yes mum.”

“She’s going to be _ way _more angry than I am once this gets out.”

In a relatively well executed morning routine given the youth of their relationship, Harry and Ginny are downstairs, facing the manic horde side by side, fingers linked in just about a quarter of an hour. Harry bites his lip as the reporters swarm and ruffles his hair, suddenly nervous despite his earlier bravado.

So, Ginny squares her shoulders and smiles. “Harry and I are together - have been since before he released _ Blissful Oblivion _,” he squeezes her hand as she takes a deep breath, “And as of last night - ”

“As of last night,” Harry smiles down at her, “I’m Mr. Ginny Weasley.”


	18. El Buho - JL

He’s a bloody idiot. A damn bloody idiot she’s going to  _ murder  _ if he wakes up.

“ _ James _ ,” Lily breathes, brushing his lank hair back from his forehead with trembling fingers, “Don’t - it’s so dark without you. And you know I hate the dark.”

His eyelids flutter and a moan leaves his chapped lips. “Everyone says  _ I’m  _ the dramatic one.”

Frantic enough to draw an embarrassed flush to her cheeks, Lily grabs the tin mug from the tray table and lifts it to his lips. “Drink, arsehole.”

James takes a few gulps, chilled water dribbling down his jaw in his haste. “Shite. Everything hurts.”

“That’ll happen when you leap off a cliff.”

“You did too.”

“You - James -  _ you grabbed me and lept from a -  _ ”

He laughs, then winces at the stretch of his split lips. “Ouch.”

Madame Pomfrey bustles over and eyes them, frowning at James before giving Lily a commiserating glance. “He’s always been the worst kind of Gryffindor.”

“Oi!”

She pats his hand in something of a motherly fashion and heads back toward her office. “Get some rest, Potter. Moody won’t wait for a debrief long.”

Groaning, James turns his head into the starchy pillow as Lily laughs, the fist closed around her heart loosening ever so slightly. She’s happy, to an extent, except every crack in her angry shield brings her one step closer to acknowledging the overwhelming, unbearable fear she’d hidden away as James was shuttled from Lincolnshire back to Hogwarts.

The second safe house pit stop, Lily nearly shouted herself hoarse as James’ vitals weakened further, until they were both sent to the Hospital Wing with an untraceable portkey.

And now, now he’s looking at her with those wide hazel eyes - the left ringed with a purpling bruise - and his dry lips twisting into a soft grin. “Evans.”

“I - James you can’t - ”

He reaches his battered hand toward her. “C’mere.”

She does as he asks, and when her face is tucked against his neck, the tears finally come, angry and hot. “Do  _ not  _ try to avoid this conversation with a warm cuddle.”

“You love my cuddles, Evans.”

“I’m serious James - and don’t you dare make a joke about that I will - ”

His lips press to her hairline. “I can’t - if it comes down to it.”

“No.”

“It’ll always be you before me, Lily.”

“Please don’t - ”

“S’alright, Evans, we’re safe now eh?”


	19. Chasing Pavements - HG

Ginny rides the post-win wave of elation across the pitch - both metaphorically and literally as Ron, Katie, and Demelza haphazardly lift her overhead until they reach the castle.

It’s a feeling like no other, really. Winning after a hard fought season filled with endless training and even more endless setbacks is a reward in itself. In a way, it feels like one of the few things she can control. Sure, a game is unpredictable, but rules, strategies, and her own hard work bear heavily on the outcome, unlike the world which seems to lose its sense with every new day.

And yet, her normal excitement is dampened somewhat when she searches the crowd for a familiar pair of emerald eyes before recalling  _ why  _ she’d played seeker that afternoon. Her mood does brighten at the thought of telling him of the game blow-for-blow, with equal parts cheeky bravado and congratulations.

When she does dismount from her impromptu parade, Ron claps her on the back and Demelza presses a sloppy kiss to her dirt-streaked cheek and the mass of Gryffindor students filters into the entry hall, except for one familiar lanky figure lingering behind. “That was a great catch, Ginny.”

“Thanks, Dean,” she grins, slightly strained, “The team played well - Harry will be so proud.”

“Not proud enough to keep his damn nose clean,” Dean murmurs, kicking nothing with the toe of his shoe, avoiding her gaze.

“You know he didn’t mean - ”

“He could’ve meant not to Ginny - he’s always - I wish people’d give me the same benefit of the doubt,” Dean says evenly, his dark eyes lingering on her, heavy with unnamed accusation.

“Dean - ”

“For someone who likes winning so much, you don’t seem particularly empathetic to second best - ”

Her temper rises and she’s torn between a dramatic exit and working off her after game rush with a well-placed bat bogey, but Dean seems to have a lot to say and isn’t particularly interested in a two-way conversation. “And second place is shite when  _ you’re  _ the one who actually gives a damn and first place can’t even - ”

She sees red then, knowing Harry’s flaws well enough and having called him to the mark plenty of times means she’s  _ quite  _ aware he cares - almost too much. “Dean. Stop.”

Dean’s jaw is set and she really would like to enjoy victory without his melodramatic self-pity coloring the occasion. “Harry has nothing to do with us - we didn’t work. Your bottled rage should make that clear enough.”

“We were good enough,” Dean tries, quiet.

“ _ Good enough _ isn’t what I want and it shouldn’t be what you want either,” Ginny sighs and makes for the stairwell, leaving Dean behind.

And really that’s what had been running through her mind through the weeks, months with Dean. They were fine together, despite his slightly overbearing demeanor and obvious jealous streak but she wanted more. And Harry had been a part of that decision, though not in the way Dean thought. Moments stolen with Harry, evenings in the common room, plotting strategy on the pitch, afternoons flying at the Burrow - her heart soared higher than she did just at his familiar company. 

Why settle for a half-arsed romance that didn’t even come close to his friendship?

So she wasn’t waiting, wasn’t mooning over something that would lead to nothing. She already  _ had  _ something, and whatever form it took, seeing that look in his eye as he burst through the portrait hole and found her across the common room -  _ Harry _ would always be enough.


	20. I'll Be Your Girl - RH

There’s always been something comforting about the Granger home - they’ve lived here as long as Hermione can remember. Carefully waxed hardwood replaced linoleum the summer before she started primary school. When she came home after her first year at Hogwarts, Mum had finally gotten a dishwasher. 

Fourth year, Dad and Mum sent a silly photo of their attempt at painting the living room which ended with the majority of the eggshell blue pigment on just about everything  _ but  _ the walls.

And this table - sunny yellow and just large enough for family breakfasts of toast and and non-sugary cereals. - this table has been host to more than a few late night and slightly teary conversations about a certain red-haired best friend who’s remarkably oblivious for his level of intelligence.

Smiling softly, Hermione sips at her tea, the ideal mix of lemon and honey soothing her throat and hopefully calming her racing heart. She sighs and murmurs to herself, “I really do hate being jealous. Natural an instinct as it is - ”

“Not as though it does much of anything,” Hermione muses, taking a small nibble from her dry toast, “Except keep me up at night. Lavender still snogs Won-Won.”

The fluorescent lights kick on overhead - Mum says those’ll be the next home reno victim - and Ron shuffles in and presses a kiss to the crown of Hermione’s head. “I thought we agreed never to mention Won-Won.”

She chuckles and he squeezes her shoulder. “You’re up early.”

“Hmm, couldn’t sleep.”

As he wanders over to the kettle, Ron nods, “I mean I slept with a ghoul clattering around in the attic for however many years but your mum - ”

Hermione laughs as Ron pours a mug of tea. “Sounds a bit like those things muggles use in the yard - ”

And really, she tries to frown in solidarity with her Mum - who should definitely see a doctor - but he’s too adorable trying and failing to remember the name for a  _ weed whacker _ of all things.

Once he’s doctored his tea with the ideal tea to milk to sugar ratio, Ron slumps into the seat next to Hermione and and pulls her feet into his lap.  _ Ah _ . Glorious foot massage. His thumb finds that spot, that ever present knob of tension in her arch and smiles softly. “I really do love how you smell, y’know?”

“Really?”

He nods, scratching his stubbly jaw. “Yeah - kinda like powdered donuts.”

“Wow. thanks?”

“Oi!” Ron yelps, lips ticked up in that obnoxiously tempting grin, “It’s a compliment. You’re welcome.”

Slowly, the sun begins peeking over the horizon, the steady glow warming the quiet street outside. It’s idyllic really, like her entire childhood. Save some despotic regimes and would-be tyrants. “Get your thumb in there?”

“Yes mistress.”

Hermione curses herself for the flush that rises on her cheeks as Ron wriggles his brows, “Guess I shouldn’t use  _ that  _ one when we’re at your parents.”

He does do as she asks, and really it feels so lovely Hermione could  _ purr _ . Really, she should have known that Ron would take advantage of her weakened state to continue his questioning. “So what were you thinking about - and don’t avoid it again, we’re fifteen years in now and you make your ‘thinking face’ more often than not. I’m very familiar with it.”

She nibbles a bit of toast, “Just had a dream - about. About sixth year?”

That little worried wrinkle forms between Ron’s brows, “Dumbledore?”

_ God  _ this is embarassing as hell. As he so rightly said, they’ve known each other for fifteen years and Ron’s like a dog with a bone when he gets an idea in his head. This is not going away without a confession. “About you and uh - well. I don’t like being jealous but it was a bit torturous.”

His answering groan and blush is a bit gratifying to be honest, at least they’re in this together. “Not particularly proud of my behavior on that note.”

“Makes two of us, Hermione murmurs, mind ever so helpfully conjuring a certain memory involving some angry birds and a quick temper. How many years and her heart still thuds painfully at the thought of that night.

The fireplace clock rings the new hour, and Ron sets his mug on the table and Hermione’s foot on the floor. “You know - ”

Hermione raises her brows. “What do I know?”

He puts one hand on the back of her chair and the other rests on the tabletop and then he leans in, pressing his lips to the tip of her nose, her cheekbone, the soft skin just in front of her ear. “That you should come back to bed, ‘Mione.”

The sigh that leaves her lips is both embarrassing and uncontrollable. “I guess it’ll be alright so long as this one doesn’t have a problem,” she gestures to her swollen middle.

Ron’s answering smile is toothy, genuine, and probably the most beautiful thing she’s ever seen. Almost reverently, he runs his palm over her belly. “Daddy’s little girl going to let mummy sleep?”

And there’s their little one, maybe a foot or a tiny fist. It’s happened like that since the newest Weasley could hear them, and still Ron looks utterly elated each time like it’s the first. Hermione finds it pretty adorable herself, but also knows there are unintended repercussions. “Ron, no. Cute as you are, she loves your voice - we’ll never get to sleep.”

Ron kisses her again, tugging her down the hall and toward her childhood bedroom turned guest room. “I’ll tell my girls a story.”


	21. Wuthering Heights - JL

When Petunia turned her nose up and said she would be ‘abstaining’ from their family holiday week at the beginning of summer, Lily fumed for a few days. It was mostly annoyance, tinged with a nagging bit of disappointment that never went away. Even though it had been just about a decade since the cracks in their relationship had started forming, Lily always found herself secretly wishing, hoping that _ this _\- whatever ‘this’ was - would be the first step toward things returning to how they had been. 

But disappointment arose again, soon lightened by her mother’s offer that Lily have free rein over their choice of location, and in between sunbathing, visits to Diagon Alley, and practically screeching when she received her note about being named Head Girl, Lily does her research and finds a tiny little village on the coast that’s _ entirely _magical. 

Still, things as they are, she can’t go in blindly - a muggle born and her muggle parents - without checking up on things. So she writes Remus, who seems to know about these things, and he assures her Port Bowman is an ideal location - quite emphatically, in fact.

So she helps her mum book a little cottage for rent and soon enough, three out of four Evanses are trundling toward the coast in a rental car and Lily’s practically vibrating with excitement. Bleak as things have been, sometimes Lily finds she forgets to _ enjoy _her magic. As they near the village, it feels as if her wand comes to life beneath her fingertips like the first time she held it seven years ago.

Check in is a blur of her dad’s wonder-filled gasps and mum’s detailed note taking regarding the sights to be seen. Madam Lambly takes it all in stride, her grey eyes sparkling with repressed mirth at the Evans’ eagerness.

The first three quarters of an hour, Lily conducts a mini-demonstration of her abilities in their rooms, to much applause and exclamation. After, they wander around the village, browsing the shops, exploring tiny museums with artifacts connected to local lore, and sampling whatever delicious foods tickle their fancies.

By the time they return to the cottage, Lily’s parents are exhausted and a squat little owl is waiting at Lily’s window. _ Remus _.

Lily manages to find a stray owl treat or two in her bags and offers them to Archimedes with a gentle scratch at his feathers. While he bristles happily, Lily slips the note open and finds a relatively short message in Remus’ round script. 

_ Lily - _

_ In the interest of honesty and to be completely frank, my own sanity, I couldn’t leave you in the dark regarding Port Bowman. _

_ A certain cheeky, quidditch playing, loveable arsehole is on holiday there as well. _

_ Though I’d never say as much to his face, I’m certain you’d have my hide if I didn’t provide the aforementioned information. Your secret is safe with me. _

_ Remus _

As a post script, he includes an address - presumably James’ - like the superior tosser he is. Who knew Remus could be such an arsehole?

Lily grumbles to herself even as she recognizes the truth of his statement. She would have found being so close to Potter during summer hols and not knowing until after the fact very..._ vexing _.

At least now, she could avoid him or know to be aware. 

Or perhaps she could…

Perhaps she could go to _ sleep _.

And really, she does intend to. Slips into some loose, cottony bottoms and her dad’s old football jersey, tucks into her cozy bed with a good book, and proceeds to read less than two pages before her eyes wander to her broom nestled in the corner.

_ It would be nice to go for a fly along the coast. _

Before she talks herself out of it, Lily’s out her window and drifting on the cool night air, a steady breeze whipping in off the coastline, sending her plait whirling against the dark sky. 

It’s really just happenstance that she finds herself hovering over the garden of the Potters’ cottage. Complete coincidence that she finds herself drawn to the one window still lit with a yellow glow from inside. A total accident that the handle of her broom knocks against the window pane and startles a wild-haired lanky git from his late-night plotting. And completely unrelated that her heart thuds uncomfortably in her chest when his hazel eyes widen as he takes her in.

It only takes a few moments for him to grind into action and he’s stumbling across his bedroom and slipping the latch of his window free. “Evans - er,” he ruffles his hair, “Lily.”

“Gonna invite me in?”

“Don’t you live on the other side of the continent?”

“Ever heard of a summer holiday?” Lily asks, grinning, “Do I have to hang out here all night?”

James taps his chin, an exaggerated thoughtful expression twisting his face. “This _ is _ a puzzle - it’s hardly polite to not invite you in and be so inhospitable,” he muses, “And yet if I invite you inside while I’m in my _ jammies _ \- ”

Lily snorts. “Jammies?”

“My _ jammies _ \- well the neighbors would be scandalized,” James gasps, even as he steps aside to allow her entry.

Steering her broom closer, Lily climbs in through the window and smirks. “Well thank you for daring to defy the neighborhood chastity squad for me,” she flushes as soon as the words leave her lips, “Not that - ”

James blushes as they studiously avoid eye contact. “No - er. I got - yeah.”

Lily props her broom in the corner, carefully stepping over the discarded quidditch gear, mismatched trainers, and more than a few textbooks and tomes on advanced transfiguration and defense against the dark arts. Her eyes skitter over the almost artfully messy room end eventually linger on a yellowy missive filled with Dumbledore’s elegant writing. She’s fairly certain the twin of this particular note is tucked in her bags back at the cottage. 

“I’m actually glad you - I was planning to write you.”

“Head Boy?”

“Is it safe to guess Dumbledore’s only sort of lost his mind - he’s not totally gone right? You’re Head Girl?”

Lily leans back against the windowsill and grins softly. “Yeah, I had a bit of a fit when I got the notice.”

James laughs a bit too loud and covers his mouth with his palm. “Honestly, I figured the letter was Dumbledore finally coming to his senses and kicking me out.”

The smile falls from LIly’s lips and twists into a scowl. “James you’ve grown up a lot - we haven’t shouted at each other in months.”

He waves her argument away, so Lily adds, “Plus I’m not the only one who noticed you with those muggleborn first years in the library - ”

James’ cheeks heat.

“If I could have picked my Head Boy it would have been you.”

“Well if you think I’m good enough I guess I’ll have to do you proud,” James says, uncharacteristically bashful. Which fills Lily with a lot of feelings she’s been trying _ quite _hard to ignore over the last months.

She’s not made of _ stone _ and bashful James is about as adorable as a yawning puppy so she can’t help but stride across the room to sweep him into a hug.

Only her ‘stride’ turns into a tumble courtesy of one of the aforementioned trainers and somehow they - she and James, not the trainer - end up collapsed in a pile atop his half made bed.

James blinks up at her, every bit the proverbial deer caught in headlights, and being honest, Lily knows she’s not much better off. “I - sorry.”

“No.”

“No?”

“You’re - it was an accident.”

Lily nods and for some reason, doesn’t move from her slightly awkward perch across James. Not that he seems inclined to adjust their positions.

Instead, his hands rise to gently rest on the sway of her back, holding her close. “I know you’ll be amazing.”

Lily nods and her braid slips over her shoulder, tickling James’ jaw. Her response is barely a whisper. “Ditto, Potter.”

Their gazes lock for a moment, eventually drifting downward toward each other’s parted lips nervously. It’s James who comes to his senses first, clearing his throat and managing to maneuver them into a seated position, side by side. 

With a slow grin, he brushes her flyaways back behind her ear. “I’m glad we’ll have each other, Evans.”

Lily’s lips lift in response as she rises and makes her way toward the window, grabbing her broom in the process. “Me too.”

They linger for just a handful of breaths, James’ eyes downcast toward where her hand holds his, close enough to send her pulse racing but far enough for plausible deniability. Until she moves in to kiss James’ cheek just as he decides to face her full on and somehow their lips meet.

It’s short, barely a touch, and still Lily feels like she did that afternoon she fiddled with the octopus of wires behind the telly even after Mum told her it was dangerous. Her hair stands on end, goosebumps rise on her skin, and it’s as if she can feel every cell in her own body.

Too much and not enough, is what it is. And really, she can’t even begin to unpack whatever the last quarter of an hour of her life means. Not now. Not while his wide hazel eyes are staring at her like she hung the moon. Or like she kicked his puppy. Again - the emotions and meanings of everything are a bit hazy at the moment.

So she nods to herself as if anything makes sense. “I’ll uh - see you soon then.”

“Maybe we can meet up - I uh. I know some of the best places to grab a bite around here.”

Lily squeezes his fingers. “G’night James.”

“Night, Evans.”


	22. Me Enamore - HG

Molly accuses Ginny of being a showboating daredevil when she’s admitted to Mungo’s with multiple broken bones for the third time since the Harpies season began. And instead of taking the stern reprimand for what it is, Ginny seems to view it as a dare. Because, according to Ginny, the “daring” bit of being a Gryffindor is mostly related to the house-wide inclination for leveling and accepting dares. 

‘It’s a matter of honor,’ she grunts as Harry shuffles her from the yard and toward the floo. This particular incident follows after she’s disproven Charlie’s assertion that she can’t leap from the window of her bedroom to the roof of Arthur’s shed. ‘I can’t very well turn down a  _ double  _ dare and look at myself in the mirror,’ she winces after matching George shot for shot in a postseason drinking match.

And Harry mostly nods and smiles ruefully in response until, for the first time, he’s roped in.

Now, he would argue that his inhibitions are at their lowest after what he’ll delicately refer to as a ’workout session’ with Ginny. For Ron’s sake, he’ll leave out the utter lack of clothing and inclusion of certain sugary implements Ginny likes to include when she’s liberated from her team mandated healthy-eating routine.

But Ginny is not one to make allowances for such things, including Harry’s concentration of blood flow and other biological excuses. So when he wakes an hour later to a face full of pamphlets and Ginny’s excited chatter, Harry knows his future has been set.

Honestly, he really  _ is  _ excited to introduce some non-dark magic related adrenaline inducing activities into his life. Parasailing is fairly light on the death-defying scale, so Harry steps it up on their next holiday with a dare of his own and that’s how he and Ginny end up screaming toward the earth with parachutes - and a couple of highly trained instructors - strapped to their backs.

After that, it’s a globe trotting adventure that very nearly drives Molly Weasley to drink and comes close to leaving Harry with carpal tunnel from signing endless waivers.

In addition to any of the pure fun that comes from the taunting and the actual activities themselves - whitewater rafting was their most recent foray into the land of adrenaline junkies - they’ve also found that their inclinations toward  _ other  _ activities become heightened. Not that they were floundering in that area before, but the spike in danger excitement leads them both to  _ other  _ excitement which is often highly acrobatic among other things.

So when they return from canyoning, which is a delicious mix of hiking, climbing, rafting, among other sporting events, and Ron notices a few light marks around Harry’s wrists and his repeated yawns at Sunday dinner Ginny cuts in. Which is probably for the best - interpersonal lies are a mixed bag for Harry. He could pull off something fantastic like his magical threats to Vernon, or something that was less so, like  _ Roonil Wazlib _ . 

But when Ginny winks at him and leans toward Ron to murmur, “Harry’s alright. Our activities just had us  _ tied up  _ for the week so he’s a bit tired. Not to worry. I’ll get him to bed as soon as we get home.”

Ron’s face purples with embarrassment as his lips twist into a squeamish expression, “You’re both fired. Percy’s my new best mate and favorite sibling.”

George perks up and shoves Ron’s shoulder, “Oi! Since when am I not your favorite?”

“Since I had to  _ hand clean  _ the Pygmie Puff cages because the new cashiers couldn’t be trusted.”

“It’s important! You know they’re our biggest sellers - ”

Harry’s following the argument like a tennis match when Ginny’s hand finds his thigh and she squeezes slowly as she whispers into his ear, “Now that they’re occupied - want to get out of here?”

“Lead the way.”


	23. She Loves You - RH

When he wakes, the first thing his brain latches onto is the warm hair tickling at his knuckles. In all likelihood, it’s Crookshanks come to deliver the death blow after months of toying with Ron’s sanity. Certainly wouldn’t be the first time he woke up with the orange monster looming overhead. 

Except, this time, when he opens his eyes and blinks away the fog, it’s to see the soaring ceiling of the Hospital Wing. And then the last twelve or so hours come back to him - chocolates and Slughorn and the Half-Blood Prince and - 

“You’re awake.”

“Mostly,” Ron manages to grind out hoarsely as Hermione reaches for the side table and produces a tin cup.

“Drink - Madame Pomfrey said you would be dehydrated.”

Gulping greedily, Ron’s eyes find the book Hermione’d abandoned at the foot of his bed. “Quidditch?”

A flush rises on her cheeks as she shrugs. “I needed something to read while I waited for you to - well Harry and I didn’t think you should wake up alone and he’s - ”

Ron reaches to still her fidgeting hands, almost pulling back at the shock that shoots from where their skin touches. “Thanks.”

“Plus Luna planned to come and give you the play by play from the match if nobody else did - ”

Grinning, Ron fluffs up the pillows behind his back and settles comfortably while Hermione rolls her eyes. “You’d get more information on the state of the local  _ nargle  _ community than the woeful defensive tactics McLaggen has been using - ”

Hermione inches her chair closer to the head of the bed and twists her wild curls back haphazardly. “I can deliver a fairly complete recap - in fact Luna made me promise.”

Ron’s chest warms as Hermione’s eyes brighten excitedly. “Can’t disappoint ol’ Loon- Luna.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles, all affection. “Well the weather was just horrid - ”

He snorts. “When isn’t it?”

At some point, he does drift off and only realizes when he wakes hours later as Madame Pomfrey deposits a tray with steaming broth and a few bottles of potion that will undoubtedly taste disgusting.

“Where’s - ”

The matron raises her brows, clearly biting back a smile, and sniffs. “I ordered Miss Granger to go find something hot to eat and have a lie down for at least a few hours. She was dead on her feet - hasn’t slept anywhere but those horrid chairs for the last three days.”

Ron ducks his head. “Thanks.”


	24. Capsize - HG

If Harry doesn’t stop with the longing looks, Ginny will have no choice but to drag him out to the little beach behind Bill and Fleur’s and snog his lights out. The worst of it is, he bats those wide green eyes at her, that teasing little dimple half appearing as he lifts the corner of his lips in a barely there smile.

_ Prat _ .

It’s been this way for weeks, careful flirtations that never cross any lines and don’t prevent plausible deniability. Like now, for instance where Harry’s flicked his gaze back to Neville, who’s extremely excited about his work helping Professor Sprout bring the greenhouses back.

Harry’s not the only one with wiles, a truth he will soon experience first hand. 

Later, rather than debating who has won their little standoff, they end up enacting a slight variation of Ginny’s secret snog on the beach with the only major change being the moonlit tryst takes place near the little pond on the Weasley’s property. Still, it’s a body of water and GInny’s not picky at the mo’, not when Harry’s hands are teasing the hem of her t-shirt and his breath hitches at her ear. 

Their time together after that is a brilliant escape, like the world stops for their hours together. But before long, it moves beyond that. Sunlit kisses turn to whispered comfort and confessions. But still neither moves for a label, neither moves things to the public forum. The latter of which hardly bothers Ginny. Hiding is deliberate in a sense, but it feels more out of a desire for privacy than anything. 

Which doesn’t mean Ginny wants it to be that way forever, and if he’s honest, she’s sure Harry doesn’t either. Their time together, their life is like a dream. A revisiting of those stolen weeks before everything. 

And the evidence points to something stronger, more definite, something without an expiration date. It’s not really a question, but Ginny won’t take the choice away from Harry. Whether he realizes or not, much of his life has been at the mercy of someone else’s whims and Ginny’ll do whatever she can to ensure he doesn’t live like that again.

So she broaches the subject on a warm afternoon spent lazing about in the cool waters of the pond. Ginny ducks beneath the surface, kicking her way over to him and popping back up a breath away. He grins down at her, glasses speckled with water droplets and cheeks pink with sunlight. “Hello there.”

Her hands rest on his shoulders as her feet come to rest on the pond’s floor. “Hello.”

“Something to say, Weasley?” Harry asks, his palms drifting to rest on her hips.

“Just have a question - a clarification you could say,” Ginny says.

“Well?”

“ _ Well _ . To use a Ron term,” Ginny begins and Harry snorts but nods for her to continue, “Are we just messing about or?”

He laughs, the flush on his cheeks developing beyond his sunburn. “Or?”

“It’s - I feel like I should be honest, but this isn’t a demand,” her thumb brushes along his hairline, the base of his head, “I still want us to be  _ us _ .”

“Well, I dunno about you, but as far as I know I’m me,” Harry teases.

In quick succession, Ginny’s hands pinch his side and then shove him beneath the water before she kicks away toward the water’s edge and pushes up until she’s seated on the bank. 

Harry comes back up, scowling as he rights his glasses, hair plastered to his head. He runs his fingers through the dark locks, pushing them back from his forehead as he forces his expression into a scowl.

For her part, Ginny puts on her best show of innocence, not wavering even as Harry stalks closer and joins her on the grassy perch. Her eyes dart toward him, but otherwise she keeps her focus on the flora and fauna around them. 

He nudges her shoulder with his, their pinkies locking. “I want to be us too.”

Ginny nudges him back, so he continues, “But better this time, eh?”

A smile lifts her mouth. “No secretive heroics?”

“Of course, I vow to fully and completely display all my heroics.”

“Don’t be a prat.”

“But I’ve been working so hard at it - even considering taking lessons from Cormac.”

“Shove it.”


	25. Say You Won't Let Go - HG

It’s been one of those weeks - countless calls that turn out to be long, extended dead ends to any sort of real dark activity. Which isn’t a bad thing - a slow week is a good week so long as he’s confident that it’s not an attempt at covering the worst. 

And since his promotion, Harry’s placed high importance on research into tracking dark activity while avoiding too much infringement on the privacy of law abiding members of society. Hermione’d helped him with that public statement while clapping him on the back and grinning a lot. There aren’t too many things as satisfying as an approving grin from Hermione Granger-Weasley. But if asked to name a few, the combined laughter of Ginny, James, Albus, and Lily-Lu would definitely be in the top five. Probably top three.

So when he wanders from the fireplace in his office in search of the rest of the Potter clan and hears their lilting chuckles drifting through the half open door to they back yard, an answering grin spreads across his face almost immediately.

Before announcing himself, he peers through the crack to find the foursome currently engaged in some sort of extensive obstacle course. LIly’s dangling upsidedown on her kiddy broom while James does his best victory dance at the end and the whole situation seems to have triggered some version of accidental magic that has his fingers sparking like mini fireworks.

All the while, Ginny’s floating above laughter bubbling from her throat while Albus exclaims his excitement and Lily continues her acrobatics, chubby cheeks rosy with excitement.

Still, she spots him first, managing to right herself on the kiddy broom before dropping to the grass and trotting toward Harry with clumsy legs. He scoops little Lily up without hesitation, propping her up on his hip while James and Albus catch on and race toward him.

The combined force and weight of his progeny manage to send him stumbling back in a sadly more effectively than the newest Auror recruits’ recent attempts at casting effective  _ bombarda  _ charms. “Take it easy on your old man, eh?”

Ginny grins. “Lucky you’ve got a nice little cushion back there.”

That earns her a wink just before Harry places a bristly kiss on Lily, Albus, and James’ foreheads in turn and tells them to head inside and wash up.

Albus flops backward in a prime example of Potter drama, moaning about his childhood fun cut short. Snorting, Harry scratches at Albus’ belly and repeats the instruction, with the added incentive of pizza for dinner. 

He’d never spoil the kids to the extent of one ‘Dudders’, but an indulgence or two couldn’t hurt. Plus an evening of cheesy overload sounds just about right. Though Harry’s newly acquired fancy for anchovies on pizza is sadly not shared by his family.

Once the three youngest Potters thunder inside, Ginny offers Harry a hand up and he drags her into his arms as soon as he’s on his feet. 

“Welcome home Auror Potter. How was your day defending the wizarding world?”

“Filled with pointless dead end tips and obnoxious paperwork.”

Ginny kisses him once, short and sweet, before Harry returns the favor, long and lingering. “I suppose it’s a good thing.”

“Seems a poor reward system that doing your job so well that dark arts practitioners are at an all time low results in the same level of paperwork,” Ginny murmurs against his chest, his beard rough against her forehead as they sway in place.

“I may call you in for expert testimony at the Wizengamot,” Harry laughs.

Ginny arches back and smiles at him, toothy and wild. “Anytime, sir.”

Palms running up her spine, Harry massages at Ginny’s shoulders and guides them into a little more of a defined waltz. “You know, every time you smile at me it’s like I’m sixteen again.”

“What’s got you in such a romantic mood sir?” Ginny asks, lifting their arms into proper form.

“You dear.”

Harry’s got her mid-dip when Ginny laughs again, “You know if this wasn’t so cute I’d tease you for at least a week.”

“Well I  _ am _ adorable,” Harry agrees, twisting Ginny out, and back in to his chest.

Pulling away just barely, Ginny looks Harry up and down with a critical eye, from his messy bun to his socked feet. “But seriously aren’t i supposed to tease you? It’s cruel to deprive me.”

He lays another kiss on her lips and smiles a bit hesitant. “Well our anniversary is coming up - if we’re talking ‘supposed to’s’ this is  _ prime _ soppy time.”

Ginny’s lips find his once, twice, and a third time that leaves them both breathless. Harry’s diving in for another go at it when a chorus of whining groans sounds from the back door.

Laugh sounding loud and unashamed, Ginny soon finds herself lifted over Harry’s shoulder as he herds the kids inside. “Just for that little show,  _ I  _ will be picking the toppings.”

The little parade ends in the kitchen when Harry sets Ginny on the tiled countertop and rifles around for the takeaway menu. “You know, Harry, love of my life, youngest seeker in a century, boy who lived - ”

“Laying it on a bit thick, eh?” Harry jokes while three pairs of round eyes blink up at them. 

James manages to mount one of the barstools while Albus seems more intent on a countertop perch like his mum. 

Harry grabs the phone from its cradle and lifts Lily onto his hip while GInny continues her entreaty. “We really shouldn’t ruin our children’s lives just because they called us icky.”

“You, Mrs. Potter, should have thought of that before you teased me for my romancing attempts,” Harry grumbles while the phone rings at his ear.

Ginny slips from the counter and saunters close, lifting Lily from Harry’s arms with such a heady look in her eyes Harry nearly forgets their audience. She follows up that little display with a low purr, “I’ll show you romantic.”

“I er-”

Her hands run up his chest, curl into his hair, and finally - grab the phone. “Catch James!”

James almost fumbles, but catches the boxy phone against his chest, “What’ll I do?”

“Pepperoni and sausage!” Albus shouts to Lily’s gleeful claps.

Harry sighs, “Betrayal, most foul.”

“Anchovies or a snog later,” Ginny asks quietly as James hands her the phone.

Ginny growls when he hesitates and Harry snickers. “I’ll take the snog.”

“Excellent choice.”


	26. Latch - HG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just realized i marked that this would have 31 chapters but that was a lie there are 30 fics woops

Admin leave had been boring enough. Two months basically going back and forth between the grocery and his flat, watching police procedurals and nitpicking them to death. He’s not proud, but it’s the truth. 

So when Kingsley rang and said they had an assignment and he could come back early, Harry was elated enough that he didn’t pause to listen past “plain clothes work” and “instructions in your email.”

Which is why it’s understandable that Harry thinks he’s taken a wrong turn when the GPS has him pulling up in front of the Harpies Clubhouse.

Kingsley answers on the third ring. “Ready to listen now?”

“I should’ve known this was too good to be true,” Harry groans, slumping back against the car seat, “So you just broke protocol to screw with me?”

“Actually, this is a real assignment and I wouldn’t mind a ‘thank you for getting me back in the field three months early, Kinglsey, greatest Chief Inspector to ever grace the office.’”

Harry sighs. “Yes, yes. A veritable gift from the gods. So why am I here?”

It doesn’t take long, the explanation that is. New up and coming hot-shot on the Harpies getting a lot of attention from fans and media. No direct threats, but the PR team hopes to keep the possibility of stalkers to a minimum. Kingsley walks through a lot more detail and Harry listens, scratching out notes in his pad. “So this is a preemptive thing?”

“So to speak, the Harpies think - and I agree - that having a strong silent type in the picture in these early stages will scare off most would be _ super fans _.”

“Saying the word stalker isn’t going to make one appear,” Harry drawls, “It’s not Beetlejuice.”

“And you’ve said both once so why tempt fate?”

Snorting, Harry twists the car engine off and clicks his seatbelt free. “That all?”  
“Keep your head out there.”

It doesn’t feel ominous, not at the time, but it really should have. Harpies are notoriously quick to brawl, fast to judgment, and none are easy targets. Honestly, he could probably use a body guard of his own.

Team security lets him in, after enough paperwork and other background checking that Harry’s relatively confident they won’t accidentally let in someone who wants to murder a player.

He finds his way to the field easily, the shrill whistle of the trainers assuring him of his correct choice before the actual field appears.

Which helpful forewarning since as soon as he steps from the dark entry hall, a professionally struck football comes careening for his forehead.

Luckily, he’s got pretty adequate reflexes so he bats it away with his forearm and one of the players catches it with a respectful tilt of her head.

She turns away, tossing it to a teammate before jogging over to the Harpies’ coach - Gwenog Jones at her beckoning. If he wasn’t sure from the picture in her file, the ensuing tense conversation confirms that the red-haired firecracker is his new charge.

They barely exchange greetings before Jones is ushering them toward her office for a team briefing. Strangely, one Ginevra Weasley - affectionately known as Ginny by her fans - seems to chafe under the attention. 

In general, Harry’s experience of one-on-one security and the celebrity personalities who need them is filled with instances of overly arrogant, trouble-making prats. Ginny seems more concerned that it’s a waste of everyone’s time. 

When Gwenog finishes the overview of their agreement with Kingsley, Ginny pipes in, “Gwenog, no one has threatened me - I know the fans have been _ excitable. _”

Harry clears his throat. “Kingsley - he’s pretty experienced in this field. He thinks having me around for a bit at the early stages of your career will scare off a crazies who might get ideas.”

Ginny quirks a brow. “Did you practice that on the way over here?”

“Why don’t we have a chat where neither of our employers are present?”

* * *

He’s a professional. A legitimate professional officer of the law, currently working in a private, personal protection capacity. A professional who is _ not _at all attracted to his charge. Which is why it’s completely acceptable to arrive a few minutes early and watch the end of practice. 

Over the weeks since he’d taken up the post, he’d gotten to know Ginny weasley in varying degrees. It only took a few days to realize she’s wickedly smart, decidedly loyal to her family, and a flirtatious minx.

At first, he thought it might be special for him. Maybe flirt with the too serious bodyguard, catch him by surprise, and give him the slip. But then he gets to watch her first interview and it’s all cheeky smiles, winks, and if he’s honest it’s a bit disappointing.

She’s got the type of personality that’s infectious. You can’t be in a room with her and not get swept into her storm, the whirlwind that is Ginny Weasley. 

Which is what he’s _ trying _to explain to Sirius that evening after he’s escorted Ginny to her favorite burger joint, and home to her flat after practice.

He finishes the story of Ginny’s affection for curly fries and the distressingly large pile of them she’d demolished in a quarter of an hour when Sirius cuts in. “You’re getting pretty in depth on this one, eh?”

“Personal security is by definition an in depth assignment,” Harry says, easy and utterly grateful this is a non-video phone call.

Undeterred, Sirius continues, “You know Potter men have a type.”

Harry harrumphs. 

“Red hair, sass for days,” Sirius elaborates.

“Ginny is - amazing, yes,” Harry allows, taking a long swallow of his beer. Liquid courage. “I- I’m only interacting with her in a professional capacity.”

“Sounded like a date to me,” Sirius drawls.

“If I call it a date while I’m being paid, it sounds like I’m a gigolo.”

“See that’s your mum, all over. Ruining my fun.”

“_ Goodnight _Sirius.”

* * *

The talk with Sirius doesn’t really help his internal angst much, particularly since he’s about eight hundred times _ more _aware of his severe attraction to Ginny Weasley. Every hair toss, teasing wink, and flirty smirk is just another nail in the proverbial coffin.

That’s to say nothing of the lingering glances, even longer touches, and her complete commitment to very physical expressions of happiness. 

She wades him in with high-fives and fist bumps, but by the two month mark he’s been subjected to the full extent of a Ginny Weasley hug. It’s delicious torture.

Made even more delicious _ and _ torturous when the Harpies have a post-victory party at a local pub and there’s some dancing and the girls are teasing them - apparently they make _ eyes _at each other - and suddenly he’s on the dance floor.

Music blares from the speakers, the floor is sticky with spilled drinks and whatever else Harry’d rather not think about. And now, he’s got his arms full of Ginny Weasley at full power. “Ginny - Gin - I can’t even watch the crowd adequately from here.”

She throws her head back, laughing with her arms linking around his neck. “Don’t be such a worry-wart.”

“That’s kind of my job.”

Rising up on tip-toe, Ginny presses close and lets her lips brush his ear. “You’re too fit to be a professional worry-wart.”

A pathetic little whimper leaves his throat, that turns into a veritable whine when her teeth tug at his earlobe. “I- Gin?”

She pulls away with a smile and begins tugging him toward the entrance, to the jeers and applause of her teammates.

The night air is crisp and she’s bloody beguiling and it’s disgusting. “You know you make my life very difficult.”

“I think I’ve made your babysitting duty relatively low drama,” Ginny says, linking her fingers with his. Her heels clack against the sidewalk as she leads the way to his vehicle. “No public spats, no drunken brawling, no boyfriend…”

“That was nice. Casual introduction of your single status,” Harry teases, “Though it was completely pointless. I’d be a shite detective if I hadn’t noticed your lack of significant other.”

They stop at the curb by his dark SUV. “Well I’ve been dropping hints and you just float around like a goldfish - I thought you might have been on admin leave for being a, what did you say, ‘shite detective’?”

Harry draws her in a little closer, cold fingertips tickling up her bare arms. “Well detectives can draw conclusions, but we can’t just jump in head first without considering.”

“Bloody buggering hell,” Ginny growls, dragging him down by his collar and spearing her fingers through his hair, “C’mere.”

“Yes, dear,” Harry murmurs, then slants his mouth over hers.


	27. Everything Has Changed - HG

The room is black as pitch when she wakes, nearly falling from the narrow mattress if not for the wiry arms banded around her middle. 

She hadn’t intended to stay, had meant to give him long deserved and well earned peace and quiet, away from everyone. Even her. 

But the vision of his limp body cradled against Hagrid’s chest wouldn’t leave her mind, and when she tried to shake it away it was replaced with pale bodies lining the Great Hall, the precious lost that wouldn’t come back.

When she slipped up the stairs, unnoticed save for Ron’s lingering glance and short nod, it was to find Harry in what would’ve been his bed for his final year if the world hadn’t gone to hell, for all intents and purposes, dead to the world.

The phrase flitted through her mind and drew a wince from her lips, but even so she could see the liveliness about him. His face relaxed and soft against the plumped pillow, trainers caked with mud that flaked off onto the bedspread. 

Dark circles ringed his eyes and his wand - the familiar holly one - was clenched in his fist. 

He barely stirred as she slipped his glasses from his face, harsh red lines reminding where the spectacles had sat. And as she watched him sleep, blissful and unworried, a small sob rose in her chest. She’d hoped and believed all this time despite that nagging part of her, the slippery voice that reminded her how easily things could be wrenched from her grasp.

Ginny swiped the tears from her cheeks brashly and toed her shoes off, operating on complete impulse as she wriggled her way into the bed next to Harry, wrapping her arm around his middle so her palm rested over his bounding heart.

Now, she’s not quite sure how much time has passed - not really quite sure of anything except the comfort of his arms. He smells of sweat and fire, dirt and rain, and underneath it all that warm heady scent of  _ Harry _ . And when she glances up, his eyes are bleary and bloodshot, wrinkled with his soft smile. “Is this a dream?”

Ginny laughs, watery, and slips her palm to cup his jaw. “Hell I hope not.”

He chuckles too, low and hoarse. When she makes to find something to bathe his throat, he tightens his grip and presses his forehead to hers. “Don’t. Not yet.”

Their legs weave together as she pulls him in closer, so his head rests against her chest. His hot tears splatter on her collarbone, quiet like he must have learned in the worst way, and Ginny hums softly. 

It’s a nonsense melody that leaves her lips as she combs her fingers through his hair, coming across more than a few knots in the process, until he calms.

His breathing is steady enough she thinks he’s drifted off again, until he whispers. “How long do you think I’ve got until your Mum comes at me with a pair of shears?”

Ginny grins against his hairline, lips pressing to the dirt streaked skin absently. “Not too soon, I hope. You’re a fox.”

She feels his chest expand with a deep breath, his hands clenching around her middle. “Ginny I - ”

But before he can continue, she quiets him with a gentle word and draws him impossibly nearer. “No rush, Harry. Everything’s different now, yeah?”

He relaxes, fingers stroking over her back, occasionally teasing the skin revealed at the hem of her pockmarked t-shirt. After a moment he murmurs, “But you know - don’t you?”

“I know.”


	28. Hearts Don't Break Around Here - HG

Associations, connections, memories - we don’t really choose them. Not really. If we did, Harry would have definitely not chosen a drunken Ron and two baskets of hot wings as his strongest memory of the scent Droobles bubblegum. And he definitely wouldn’t think of death, destruction, and funerals every time he came across a floral arrangement. 

Harry’s first real experience with flowers outside of a neatly kept garden on Privet drive or the wild blooms swaying in the Weasley’s yard is at Ted Tonks’ funeral after the war. Wide, bright bouquets filled with sprays of wildflowers, sunflowers, and sharp green shoots litter the small chapel.

He holds his godson close the whole service and barely feels anything but the tight squeeze of Andromeda’s hand and Teddy’s shuddering breaths. In his weeks as acting godfather, Harry hadn’t seen the little bundle cry this much, it was like he knew his grandfather was about to be - 

Just as Harry’s thoughts go darker - which previously he wouldn’t have said was possible - another, cool hand finds his shoulder.  _ Ginny _ .

After that, she doesn’t leave his side, her arm banded around his middle, free hand ready to swipe dribbles from Teddy’s chubby cheeks.

The following months are a blur, the wizarding world trying to simultaneously reclaim some semblance of normalcy while mourning the loss of so many. And each time - whether it’s a stuffy Ministry celebration or another lost too young, too soon, too sadly. Ginny’s there for it all, a comfort, a confidante, and as the days pass more comfortable sharing her tears with him too.

One bouquet stands in stark focus, in a small graveyard with no mourners, no pomp, no priest. Just his hand in Ginny’s and the prick of thorns against his other palm. “I - uh. I don’t really know what to say.”

Ginny tucks herself closer. “That’s alright.”

If life, the  _ world  _ had been different, they’d still be here in Godric’s. The headstones would be bare, the little house wouldn’t be a bittersweet monument to a young couple’s sacrifice, the town wouldn’t be centered on a camouflaged statue…

As Harry bends down to place the flowers in the prickly grass, Ginny’s fingers brush over his temple. “I know it’s a dull thing to say but I do think they’re proud.”

His mind flashes to a clearing, dark and solitary save a handful of ghostly figures, and he knows she’s right. “It’s not dull. I - ” Ginny ignores his sniffle as he murmurs, “Thank you.”

That afternoon, he’s lying under the shade of a decades old hawthorn, feet bare and throat a bit dry, though he’s too lazy to care much. A rustle sounds from the direction of the house, and soon a shadow looms, icy water dripping on his forehead.

“This may be the most concentrated sunshower of all time,” Harry chuckles, eyes still lightly closed as he takes a deep breath.

_ Flowers _ .

Ginny snorts and nudges his ribs with her toes. “You’re welcome for the lemonade.”

“How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” she shrugs, settling down at his hip and taking a long sip from her own glass.

After a moment, he props himself against the tree trunk and lays his free hand on Ginny’s knee when he sees a little pile of wildflowers at her side. “What’re those - soap making time already?”

“Nah, just thought they looked particularly pretty today,” Ginny answers with a shrug, but she’s got that look. Not the blazing, ‘this is about to be a  _ very  _ enjoyable afternoon look,’ more like the Ginny’s ‘got a project and you might end up playing quidditch blindfolded’ type.

She fiddles with the petals for a few moments before lifting them into her lap, three blooms at a time. 

Harry takes a drag from his lemonade. “So what’cha doing?”

“Weaving.”

“Weaving…?”

Nodding, Ginny continues her project, that little wrinkle he discovered on a sunlit afternoon forming between her brows as she focuses.

After a few minutes, Ginny nods and lifts the completed circlet gently in her hands and nestles it in Harry’s newly shorn locks. “There,” she frowns as a few curls lift in the summer breeze, “Luna’s are better - she’s teaching me.”

As Harry watches Ginny begin a second crown, his chest fills with the lightness of  _ normalcy _ . His girlfriend - at least he  _ hopes _ \- lounging beside him in swaying grasses, tangy lemonade on his tongue, the bright summer sun warm overhead, it’s all something he’s never really known. 

She started humming at some point, some slightly off-key rendition of what he believes is a Celestina Warbeck hit, and it’s overwhelming. The feeling of - of something he can’t quite put a name to. Not yet anyway. 

But it’s a big, dangerous, wonderful something he’ll name someday. Soon.

And he’ll be here, Ginny too - they’ve got all the time in the world.


	29. Dreams - HG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> almost the end (I hope you noticed that yesterday's had already been posted way way back xD)

“Your dad said he knew what he was doing,” Harry mutters, kicking a tire with the toe of his trainer. 

Ginny snickers from her place lounged on the faded hood, sunglasses perched low on her nose. “And you believed him?”

“Well you did too - up until the smoking engine bit,” Harry says, slightly defensive as he rounds the car, “Weasleys are a convincing bunch.”

A soft breeze lifts Harry’s overgrown waves, sun glinting on his spectacles, and Ginny can’t keep the soft smile from her face. “It was a nice morning.”

It really had been, too - clear blue skies, endless road before them, patchy radio blaring out oldies, and Ginny’s laughter loud and bright as the sun overhead. Until a few clunking noises turned to tendrils of white smoke which turned to dark grey plumes, obscuring the wind screen enough they had to pull off into the shoulder.

Still, he’d take a day like this with Ginny over the best day anywhere else  _ with  _ anyone else. Her sailor-mouthed swearing, full-bellied laughter, and endless cheek never fail to bring Harry back to reality, back to himself.

“It was nice,” Harry answers, soft as he props his hip on the hood.

Ginny stretches her hand toward him and wiggles her fingers until he slots his between them and squeezes gently. “Been a while since we passed a village - should be something soon, eh?”

“There’s a map in the glove box.”

“Turn up the tunes, I need music to read longitude by,” Ginny demands, suddenly tingling with energy as she rolls and drops her dark-booted feet to the ground.

Once Harry twists the starter, Ginny immediately begins wailing along with some vaguely ethereal song on the radio while she studies the crumpled map. “Dunno why I volunteered - maps aren’t exactly my thing.”

Harry reaches for the map and manages to find the little side road he’d chosen on a devil-may-care whim he is now slightly regretting. Luckily, it seems there  _ is  _ a little village of sorts coming up where they’ll be able to - shite.

“Ginny,” when she hums Harry continues, “What exactly is the plan once we do get to civilization.”

“Technically we haven’t left - the road is paved, we still have radio access,” Ginny lists off as they gather their minimal belongings and lock the car. Pity the intrepid thief who makes an attempt on the hunk of metal currently sort of smoldering in the afternoon light.

“ _ Regardless _ , nobody in your family’s got a phone, neither of us can apparate - ”

“Technically you can,” Ginny corrects, swaying weeds brushing her freckled calves. 

Wrapping one arm around Ginny’s shoulders, Harry pulls her in close as they slowly wander along the roadside. Her flowery scent drifts on the warm breeze and Harry’s unbelievably content for someone whose car just crapped out in the middle of nowhere. “ _ Technically _ , I broke a lot of laws and Kinglsey asked me to wait a few weeks before starting in again.”

“My training wasn’t the best - wouldn’t this be extenuating circumstances?”

“Who wants to test that?” Harry laughs, “‘Sides, this is almost like a date.”

At his flush, Ginny bites her lip and leans further into Harry’s side. “True enough. So tell me about that film you went to see with Ron on your other  _ almost date _ this week.”

Harry pinches her side and their easy chatter carries them to the outskirts of town. Small, squat buildings line the main street which turns from paved road to cobblestones. Shopkeepers sweep dirt from their doorsteps, calling out familiarly to each other, and traffic seems to be more cycling and pedestrian than anything else.

Luckily, though, they do find a mechanic’s shop, and Earl seems more than willing to have Harry’s junker towed and hopefully put to rights as soon as possible. Mainly because of Ginny’s knack for making anyone she talks to feel like the most important person in the room. It’s not a tactic - the longer Harry’s known her, the more he’s realized she’s the most genuine person he’s ever met. There’s not a false bone in her body, if you’ve done something wrong, she’ll tell you flat out and when someone speaks she’s hooked in, full on attention that would make anyone preen.

And Earl is certainly no exception, smiling and scratching his tufty white beard as he recommends a nearby bed and breakfast - though he says his wife Mamie serves the best shepherd’s pie in town at the pub next door. 

Eventually, the mechanic disappears into the garage to begin his preliminary look at the car and dismisses Harry and Ginny, assuring them he’ll be able to find them if necessary.

It’s said in an ominous ‘your car may be more valuable as parts’ kind of way that has Harry longing for a tall pint to drown his sorrows. 

“My first major purchase without Hagrid’s supervision and I buy a deathtrap,” he sighs, swiping stray droplets from his upper lip while Ginny eyes the pretzel in her hand speculatively.

“Never took you for a scaredy-cat,” she says after a moment, dark brown gaze finding his across the sticky table, “Thought the point was a project - ‘something to do with your hands’ even though I assured you I had plenty of alternatives available.”

Though he blushes all the while, Harry doesn’t let his eyes drop as he answers in a low, meaningful voice he’s really quite proud of, “Always trying to become more  _ dexterous  _ for you, dear.”

“I prefer training together,” Ginny answers, never faltering as she follows up with a slow teasing lick of her lips.

Before Harry has a chance to answer - the content of which he was still formulating - Rhoda, their waitress slides a couple of steaming plates full of shepherd’s pie in front of them and departs to pull a couple more pints. 

“S’pose we could sightsee,” Harry says, at least half a dozen forkfuls into the meal Earl definitely didn’t oversell. Ginny’s moans seem to indicate she agrees, and also have Harry’s mind drifting a bit. So bland small talk it is.

True to his word, Earl does manage to find them, coveralls streaked with grease and smiling as he eyes their empty plates. “I told you Mamie was the best cook in the county eh?”

Ginny nods her agreement, nudging Harry under the table and dragging him from his mental picture of his car simply burst into flames. “Filled us right up,” Harry offers with a grin that falters only a hair as he asks, “So the car?”

“Old thing, isn’t it?”

Harry ruffles his hair. “Er - yeah. Would seem so.”

Earl wipes at his hands with a red rag and stuffs it into his back pocket. “Well I’ve got mostly good news for you. The problems have been diagnosed,” Harry winces at the  _ plural  _ and Earl continues, “And I’m well equipped to fix ‘em all. ‘Cept for the parts. They’ll be here in the morning, first thing.”

“First thing - ” Harry stutters out, “So we are - ”

Ginny smiles. “Thank you Earl. Guess we’re heading over to that B&B you mentioned.”

“Mention my name - Tom’s my brother-in-law and he’ll give you the best room in the house.”

The best room, it turns out, is a cozy little something that smells  _ slightly  _ of mold but has the most beautiful view of the coast either of them has ever seen. Ginny drops onto the bed - yes  _ singular bed _ \- and bounces to the tune of creaky springs. “S’not so bad. Surprise holiday!”

Harry grins. “I’ve had worse surprises.”

“And we’ll be back before Mum knows the difference.”

_ Assuming the parts arrive in time, the Weasleys don’t return from Bill and Fleur’s early, Ron doesn’t come home from the Grangers and go informant, and about a thousand other worst case scenarios Harry’s too tired to dream up. _

Despite his inner turmoil, Harry does manage to grind out a strangled, “Right.”

Ever knowing, Ginny smiles and reaches her hand toward him. “I’ll protect you from any angry Weasleys that may or may not cross our path come tomorrow afternoon.”

“My hero.”

“Now, shall we? I saw the beginnings of a cute little artsy festival of sorts. Plus I’ll be hungry again soon,” Ginny says with a grin and pulls him toward the door.

The rest of the afternoon is spent in a glorious haze of  _ lightness  _ like Harry’s only ever really known when Ginny’s by his side. The art walk feature a broad spectrum of quality, anywhere from ‘amazing why is this person famous’ to ‘oh wait that’s  _ not  _ a piece of garbage.’

They buy a photo frame for Molly and Arthur made from reclaimed driftwood and when Ginny’s looking the other way he buys her a crystal blue necklace made from seaglass.

Instead of dinner, they gorge themselves on delicious fried snacks and treats sold from carts spread throughout the festival stands and soon they’re stumbling back to their room giddy with a day spent in the sun. 

As the door slips shut with a  _ snick _ and suddenly everything feels very...real.

Ginny’s eyes find his, her hands still resting at his sides that still ache with the laughter that carried them up spindly stairs. Her grin is soft, teasing. “So.”

He leans closer, holding his breath. “So.”

And then their lips meet, slow and teasing and  _ them _ . Ginny’s sharp intake of breath when his palms slip beneath the hem of her t-shirt draws him in closer, deeper and they somehow stumble back toward the freshly plumped bed. Springs creak beneath them as Ginny’s teeth nip at his lower lip teasingly. “A bit noisy, eh?”

“We best be careful or we’ll start,” Ginny cuts his sentence off with a heated kiss and pulls back to glance at him, “A scandal?”

“Imagine what Tom and Cynthia would say,” Harry says with a laugh as Ginny abandons her perch above him and falls to the side with another groan of the mattress. 

“Harry - I. I’m just so - ”

His eyes crinkle as his smile mirrors hers. “Happy?”

She nods and presses a kiss to his palm. “Yeah.”

Despite the pull of hormonal urges, they eventually give up on their lazy snogging session and drift off to sleep, Ginny tucked close against Harry’s chest. 

Sunlight wakes them in the morning, bright and early enough that Cynthia’s scones are freshly pulled from the oven. By the time their leisurely breakfast comes to a close, Earl turns up with Harry’s fully functional car, true to his word.

It takes a bit of clever bending of the truth to avoid Earl’s questions about some ‘unexplainable magic’ that seemed to hold parts of the car together, but soon enough they’re trundling back toward Ottery St. Catchpole with the windows rolled back and the stereo on blast.

Before long, they’re driving up the gravel drive and the previous night’s  _ urges _ returned in full force about three junctions ago when Ginny’s wailing along with the radio dropped - along with her teasing hand.

While innocent enough, Harry’s not a robot and having his girlfriend’s freckled fingers gripping his knee just tight enough to keep him  _ highly  _ aware.

She keeps him close as they make their way into the house, his arm banded around her middle while she releases the locks and draws them into the kitchen. Just before their lips meet, a throat clears.

George is grinning over the rim of his mug, hair unkempt and eyes lighter,  _ happier  _ than they’ve been in a long time. “Morning lovebirds.”


	30. Automatically In Love - HG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE LAST ONE!!! I hope you enjoyed this collection :) :) thank you for reading & supporting!!

When Hermione says he needs to get out and have a drink, Harry knows he’s a mess. She’s about as straight edge as you can get without actually abstaining completely and in their near decade of friendship, he can count the number of times Hermione’s told him to take a break on one hand. So now, here he is, eardrums throbbing while Hermione leads the way toward the bar.

Honestly, if it were just for his sake, he might not have given in. But she’s been at it non-stop and  _ finally _ finished negotiations on his new contract with the studio, so he knows if Hermione’s suggesting it, she probably needed a night out a month ago. That scenario may make him sound like a slave driver, but a casual review of his messaging history would likely reveal the large majority of his texts are comprised of variations on ‘Hermione please go to sleep’ and ‘Hermione have you eaten’ and the like. Hermione is about as Type A, perfectionistic as you can get.

She’s also impeccable at getting things done exactly how and when she wants them - as is evidenced by her already completed drink orders despite the wall to wall crowding in the bar. “Bottoms up, Harry.”

“Cheers.”

After two rounds of shots and a couple of quick pints to chase them down, Harry and Hermione are both pleasantly buzzed for another out of character move for both of them - hitting the dancefloor. He’s buzzed, but not out of it enough to not catalogue the strange little groupings on writhing together. There’s the ‘we’re here to get some’ grinders, the ‘stay away it’s girls nighters’ and then the group they slip into, which apparently contains mostly DJ groupies. 

Hermione’s hair glows in the blue lights, his shoelaces bright white in the dark club. He grins at Hermione as another rhythmic number begins thudding over the speakers. “Thanks for making me come out tonight!”

She grins. “Anytime. You know I love to be bossy.”

The teasing agreement Harry was about to deliver slips away as his eyes find a flash of red twisting and twirling somewhere in between the girls nighters and the DJ groupies and Harry’s  _ really  _ hoping she’s negotiable on the ‘stay away’ bit. It’s odd - usually this level of rudeness would earn him a talking to from Hermione but she’s fallen still, not even jostled into movement until she trips headlong into Harry’s chest and he ends up with a mouthful of curls.

Once they right themselves, Harry notices the flush on her cheeks, the wideness of her eyes and her overall fidgety demeanor that’s  _ highly  _ out of character. Except for very specific circumstances. “Where’s the guy?”

And if she wasn’t two shots, one pint, slightly overtired Hermione she would definitely put up a fight, beginning with steadfast denial. Instead, they skip past all the back and forth and she simply points one pink-nailed finger toward the bar at a tall, slightly gangly redhead with a long nose and booming laugh. “Gonna make a move then?”

“I need another shot for that.”

“And look who’s right at the bar?”

Her eyes narrow and Harry simply prods her shoulder. “Off you get.”

Once Hermione’s absorbed into the crowd and he’s got nobody to scream lyrics to, Harry’s head seems to clear and he realizes that he is indeed still a gawky dancer with barely there rhythm and no style outside the pre-set clothing for official appearances.

To add insult to misery, the mysterious woman has disappeared and he’s been shuffled into the sticky floor section which also happens to be in prime DJ induced migraine territory. He twists again and finds Hermione at the bar, downing a shot and straightening her spine before tapping Mr Gangly on the shoulder.  _ Ah, young love _ .

His musings are cut short when he’s jostled again and nearly falls headlong into the land of boa festooned bridesmaids, would have too if not for a freckled hand grasping his forearm. He’s pulled upright and comes face to face - or as close as possible given the twelve inch or so height difference - with a sunkissed, red haired, freckled woman he’s fairly sure is a siren. “Alright?”

Harry nods, running a hand through his hair, “Sure - uh. You?”

And then her eyes light up in that way he’s come to view with a feeling of dread. Sure, he knows an actor who’s not recognizable likely doesn’t get much work and that’s certainly not what he wants. But still, he’d like to have a woman’s eyes light up just because she fancies him.

Perhaps his feelings are readable -  _ Variety _ did say he conveyed a thousand emotions with one look - because the mystery woman bites her lip and tips her head in invitation. “Care for a dance?”

With one glance back at Hermione, she’s currently cozied up with Gangly, mid argument. The ideal first date for his best friend. He glances back at the fiery temptress still gripping his arm and smiles, “Lead the way.”

She winks, “I’m Ginny, by the way.”

Somehow his hands end up on her hips as she draws him in with dark whiskey eyes and he manages to stutter out, “I’m uh - Harry.”

“I know,” she yells in his ear, “I’ve seen you around - ” and just as he’s bracing for the autograph and or photo request, she continues, “I was at the studio mixer which in my opinion was just an unpleasantly elongated photo op.”

Harry grins, “I know - Hermione says I can’t complain since I decided to be a telly actor but taking photos is just - ”

“Not the same!” Ginny finishes and they wander toward the far end of the dance floor, “And it’s not like I should be obligated to give up my privacy for all this - nobody needs to know who’s warming my bed to like my film!”

And then it clicks, “You’re - the dystopian thing?”

Ginny nods, “And you’re - ”

“Boy superhero turned cold-hearted detective.”

She twirls herself out and then back into his arms, somehow still flowery and fresh even amidst the stale sweaty mass of club goers. “S’pose no privacy is old hat for you.”

“The network just - well,” Harry’s tongue is loose, but not enough to forget he’s not particularly allowed to disclose certain ‘romantic’  _ arrangements  _ with a faux ex girlfriend.

Ginny eyes him for a moment. “You are quite good at the heartbroken act,” she holds his gaze before continuing, “Detective Somers mourning the loss of his partner brought tears to my Mum’s eyes. Dad locked himself in his shed for a week.”

They wander close enough to the bar that Harry’s able to get them a couple of pints, each draining half as if they’re somehow rehydrating. “And you?”

“It was moving.”

Harry lets his fingers tease the side of her hand resting on the sticky bartop. “You know you’dve been right in my target boy hero market back in the day.”

“So?”

“Any posters? Tiger Beat did a nice spread when I turned fourteen - very foxy.”

She blinks at him, “Sure. If you’ve got a thing for knobby knees and dorky jokes about Roman numerals.”

And just as the words leave her lips, Ginny realizes what she’s admitted and Harry pounces. “Just know me from the network mixer, eh?”

“You think you’re so smooth - you’re just ticking me off,” Ginny grumbles, though she doesn’t pull her hand away.

“And yet you stay.”

“Seriously, you’re tragic,” she leans close and mutters, “No wonder they had to give you a fake girlfriend.”

Harry ruffles his hair. “Well,” she blinks up at him, “Maybe if you become my  _ real  _ one I’ll learn to be smooth.”

“Damnit if that’s not working a bit.”

Taking a chance, he leans down and presses his lips to hers, short but heated, “That’s how I got syndication.”

Ginny blinks up at him, her fingers lingering in his messy waves, “Better not be.”


End file.
